


Sour Milk

by dwellingondreams



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead (Telltale Video Game)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Babysitting, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Gen, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Loss of Parent(s), Mash-up, Not Canon Compliant, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Post Apocalyptic Cottagecore, Post-Apocalypse, Present Tense, Psychological Horror, Racist Language, References to Depression, Sexual Harassment, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 57,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28469133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwellingondreams/pseuds/dwellingondreams
Summary: Her parents said she was precocious, whatever that means. You think it’s just a way of saying she’s very smart for her age, and a little weird, and it makes adults think she’s mature, but she’s still just a kid, after all.“Why is everyone leaving?” she asks.You see little point in lying to her. “They’re scared people are going to come down from the highway after their cars stall out.”She frowns. “Are they?”“Maybe,” you say. But we have to stay here, you think, because there’s nowhere else to go.(Lee goes, Sandra lives, the Greenes reluctantly make space for a little girl and her babysitter, and the apocalypse settles in at a slow broil instead of a tidal wave)
Relationships: Clementine & Lee Everett, Clementine & Sandra (Walking Dead: A New Day), Lee Everett & Sandra, Maggie Greene & Sandra, Maggie Greene & Shawn Greene, Shawn Greene & Sandra
Comments: 35
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so this is a weird mash-up of the TWD game, TV show, and comics. None of this is canon compliant. I have no idea why it's written in second person, it started as a writing experiment in that tense. 
> 
> Sandra has undiagnosed anxiety and depression; the apocalypse is not helping matters. 
> 
> This ends on a weird cliffhanger because it was supposed to be part of a 10-chapter-long work, but I wrote myself into a corner around Chapter 7 and now I'm fucked, and it's less of a cliffhanger to just give you the intro than to randomly leave off around the middle. 
> 
> I may come back to this at some point and try to write myself out of that corner, if there is any interest. It's called 'Sour Milk' because I was trying to reference something when I named the document, but I can't remember what song or poem I was trying to reference.
> 
> I try to write zombie apocalypse fiction every year so this is just my last minute contribution for 2020.

MARCH

You only start to question how well you know your neighbors when they start loading up their cars. 

They declared a state of emergency last night, but didn’t really explain what that meant. All the same, all those warnings to stay at home and keep your doors and windows locked have only convinced everyone that what they really need to do is the opposite. 

This neighborhood is only fifteen minutes outside of the city, and it’s off of a major state highway. No one here gets to put their head down, turn off the TV, and sit this one out. They’ve been hearing nothing but sirens and the cacophony of traffic for the past two days.

You biked up to the freeway exit yourself yesterday, and watched the unending line of cars, all fleeing the city, stretch into the humid haze of the horizon. You watched ambulances and police cruisers race by on the other side of the road, completely unimpeded; no one was driving into the city except them. 

You watched cars idle and bake in the sun until finally, finally, the snarl untangled itself and they began to move again. Within an hour the road was backed up again, and there’d been two minor fender benders, one resulting in a screaming match and furious gesturing. 

You wonder what will happen if the next crush doesn’t clear up, if all the thousands of people in those cars realize they’re not getting anywhere. You don’t have to wonder long to know where they will go, desperate and terrified, lugging screaming children, elderly grandparents, yapping pets, and overflowing luggage. 

Guns, too. A lot of them probably have guns, more than they know what to do with, but not nearly enough food or supplies to live without electricity and running water. They’ll want to take shelter somewhere, and these neat rows of houses are as likely pickings as any.

Hence, the suburban flight. Right now you still have power in the house, but no internet and a lot of the TV channels are down. You’re playing a DVD for the kid; The Little Mermaid. You’ve kept the windows closed and the air conditioner cranked up today not because it’s very hot outside, but because you didn’t want her to hear anything unpleasant. 

You check your phone; service has been going in and out all day, and you’ve called and texted her parents twice today already. You last heard from them yesterday morning; her dad’s hurt and in the hospital, her mom doesn’t know when he’ll be released, though she claims the bite wasn’t serious.

But the news says the bites are very serious, and anyone who’s been bitten needs to contact emergency services immediately, while quarantining from the rest of the family. 

You wonder if anyone in this neighborhood’s been bitten, but you think the simmering low level of panic up and down the street would be an outright boil if that were the case. Still. They could be hiding it. You wipe your clammy palms on your shorts. You called your dad this morning, too, but it just rang and rang. 

You tried to look up news from Puerto Rico before the internet went out last night, but all you could find were random Twitter threads and hysterical Facebook posts, most in Spanish, and your Spanish isn’t very good, a smattering of half-remembered phrases and terms, mostly swears you learned from your dad. Some of them are useful to you now. 

You check the latest text thread from your friends, but the most recent text was from four AM this morning. Someone’s mom being rushed to the emergency room. 

You shove your phone into your back pocket, and slip out out of the house and onto the dewy lawn. This isn’t your house; you live three houses down, diagonally, but you’ve been almost afraid to go back there alone, even though you have the key. The last time you went over there, the day before yesterday, it looked like someone had been trying to force open a back window, but hadn’t succeeded. 

You took some clothes and pretty much all of the nonperishable food from your house over to the kid’s. Most of it was bottled water, granola bars, peanut butter, canned fruit, cereal, and a ton of rice and beans. You’re not a very good cook and you don’t know what to do when the water gets shut off. If that happens. 

You suppose you can live off granola bars and canned fruit and peanut butter for a while, but what happens when that runs out? And some kid was watching you lug the stuff over in an old Radio Flyer wagon from across the street. That made you nervous, though you have no more food than anyone else might.

You walk down the curb, trying to gather your courage. You only know two families by name. This isn’t a very friendly neighborhood. Not that it’s unsafe or unpleasant, but people largely live separate, disinterested lives and get very angry about parking and dog poop. 

Your dad hated it here, but stayed because of the good schools, the ones you went to, only to stall out in high school and get into a middling state college instead of a prestigious university. Where you have yet to even declare a degree, because you stopped having real passions in middle school.

“Hi Mrs. Mueller,” you say as you near their minivan. You’ve babysat for the Muellers a few times over the years. They have three kids; two boys and a girl. The eldest must be almost fifteen by now, the youngest maybe nine or ten. 

The kids smile awkwardly back at you, but the adults look harried and a little wary, as if you were no longer the lazy but responsible-enough teen who babysat for them, and had instead transformed into a stranger in the span or four or five years. 

You are twenty, so no longer a teen, but you don’t feel like an adult, either. 

“Sandra,” Mrs. Mueller says, stepping away from her husband, who is loudly arguing on the phone with someone. “How are you? I didn’t even know you were back.” 

You don’t think that’s true, because you saw her while you were getting the mail the last time they actually delivered the mail, a few days ago, but you’re not going to say that to her face, obviously. “I’m okay,” you lie. “It’s just- I’m babysitting this little girl, Clementine, do you know her, um, her family lives over-,”

You jerk her head but you can see that she does, in fact, know who you are talking about. Her mouth makes a small O and you know she she knows where you are going with this. But she can’t say anything right away without looking like a terrible, heartless person. You press onwards. 

“I haven’t heard from her parents since last night, and I don’t know when they’ll be back, or when my dad will be able to fly back from Puerto Rico. And… and they took the car, and my dad’s car is at the airport, so, I was wondering-,” you cut yourself off as Mr. Mueller gets off the phone, red in the face. He’s always been nice enough to you but his scowl cuts through you now.

“Kathy,” he says, sharply. “We don’t have time for this.”

“It’s just that everyone is leaving and- and maybe if we could just get a ride,” you say hurriedly. “Not… not very far just to… to the next town over or something, wherever it’s a little safer. I can pay you.” 

You have in cash, collectively, from the money in your wallet, the money your dad left in the house, and the emergency money Clementine’s parents left you, a few hundred dollars.

The Mueller kids are listening to the radio in the car, straining to hear over the static.

“Sandra,” Mrs. Mueller says. “I… I’m really sorry, sweetheart, but… but I just don’t think we have room for you.”

You swallow. You don’t want to say this; you’re a selfish, cowardly person, but you have to say this. “What about just the kid? She’s little. Could you- could you just take her?”

Mrs. Mueller glances at her husband, who makes a head-shaking motion, eyes wide. She turns back to you. “I’m sorry,” she says, again. “But… but we just wouldn’t feel comfortable taking her off with us without her parents’ permission.”

“I understand,” you say, too quickly. You do. Their car is loaded down with luggage and food, and it’s clear they have barely enough room for themselves and their own children and their cat yowling in its carrier. 

Maybe they could squeeze the kid in on someone’s lap, but like they said, she is not their daughter, and you can’t just pawn someone else’s kid off on them.

You turn, also too quickly, face hot, and walk away, ignoring Mrs. Mueller’s apologies called half-heartedly after you. 

The other family you know are Robbins. You never babysat for them, but you went to school with their daughter for years. The two of you were never friends, and now she goes to some school in California, but you were always polite enough with her parents. 

Only Mrs. Robbins isn’t there, it turns out she left two weeks ago with her sister on some girl’s trip, so it’s just Mr. Robbins, and while he’s a lot more outwardly sympathetic than the Muellers, you grow increasingly uncomfortable with the faint smell of alcohol on his breath and the way his gaze rakes up and down your body. When he takes you by the elbow and draws you behind his truck, you stumble a little. 

“I could give you a ride,” he says, “for sure.” He sounds like an old man trying to sound young and hip again. “But I guess the question is, Sandra,” he pronounces your name with an exaggerated Italian accent, though neither of you are Italian, “is what you could do for me, huh? I mean, nothing comes free,” he laughs, like he’s just joking, eyes smiling, it could be a joke, but you don’t like this joke. 

You yank your arm out of his clammy grasp. 

“Don’t take it to heart,” he says, almost reprovingly. “I’m just saying, we’re both adults here, you’re a very pretty girl-,”

You wonder if he has a gun. “I have to go,” you say, and speed walk away, praying he doesn’t follow. He doesn’t. He goes back to checking the air pressure of his tires. 

Inside the house, a blast of cool air greets you. The kid has paused the movie and is staring at you in concern. She’s really good with tech and stuff like that. She showed you all her favorite websites a few days ago, the Youtube channels she watches, the webcomics she likes to read, even though she’s only eight. 

Her parents said she was precocious, whatever that means. You think it’s just a way of saying she’s very smart for her age, and a little weird, and it makes adults think she’s mature, but she’s still just a kid, after all. 

“Why is everyone leaving?” she asks.

You see little point in lying to her. “They’re scared people are going to come down from the highway after their cars stall out.”

She frowns. “Are they?”

“Maybe,” you say. But we have to stay here, you think, because there’s nowhere else to go. 

“Let’s finish the movie. We’re fine. We have food and water and we’ll lock everything up tonight.” 

Last night you slept in the same bed for the first time. It was weird, since you never had any siblings and don’t know what it’s like to share a bed with anyone but your dad, and that was when you were little, but it made you both feel safer, you think.

You finish the movie, trying to ignore the commotion and chatter outside. By dusk, more than half of the neighbors have fled. 

By the next morning, as far as you can tell, you and the kid might be the only people left on the block. The quiet is both comforting and unnerving. 

The next day and a half passes almost normally. You still have power and running water, though you keep the tub filled up. Cell service goes completely down, though. At one point the house phone rings and you rush to pick it up, but you can’t make out the garbled words on the other side, over the sounds of screaming and heavy static. 

You hang up immediately and don’t tell the kid. It didn’t not sound like her mom. But you just don’t know. It doesn’t ring again, and neither does your cell phone. 

On the afternoon of the second day you hear noises and scrabbling on the other side of the fence. The noises get louder when you approach or when you speak. The kid climbs up into her treehouse to look with her binoculars. She comes back down looking sick to her stomach, and says there are is a scary woman covered in blood, trying to climb the fence. Luckily, she doesn’t succeed.

You stay indoors after that, constantly checking all the windows, and catch a glimpse of the first staggering person at the opposite end of the street as the sun sets. You double check all the doors are locked, and pull down all the shades. Maybe if they can’t see you, or hear you, or smell you…

In the morning you take a peek, after a sleepless, terrified night. There are more… people, milling about in the street, wandering aimlessly from house to house, sometimes in groups of three or four. 

But they don’t act like people, and some are clearly injured, dragging broken or dislocated limbs. One of them’s head is nearly caved in on the one side. The kid takes one look at them and bursts into frightened tears. You cry too, but don’t open any windows. You stay where you are.

There is scratching on the windows by noon. Then it goes away. A few hours later, it comes back. You watch the shadows through the blinds, a metal softball bat in hand. It is your only weapon besides some kitchen knives and a heavy wrench from the garage. But they just scratch and groan. 

The yard clears out again as the sun goes down.

“What are we going to do?” the kid asks you. “We can’t call the police. Or even the firefighters.”

“We just have to wait it out,” you say. “Someone will come.”

Someone does come, but you meant the army or the national guard. They are neither. 

They are an injured man, and you know they’re alive because they curse when they land on the ground after hauling themselves over your fence. They are a tall black man who looks to be approaching middle age, dressed in a dress shirt and trousers like he were heading into work, with a clearly injured leg, judging by his limp. Maybe he was in a car wreck. 

You watch through the kitchen window, wondering what the fuck you are supposed to do. Does he know about the sick people? Should you warn him? What if he’s sick too? Or bit, on his leg, and that’s why he’s limping like that. 

Your hesitance and curiosity decides it for you. He spots you peeking out at him, and waves, frantically, calling out. He calls out even louder when you duck behind the curtain. Fuck. He will bring them all down on you. 

The kid looks at you worriedly, and you say, “Hide behind the couch.” She does so without question; she’s a good kid like that; sometimes she’s got a smart mouth, but she does what you tell her when you say it seriously.

You grab the bat, and open the glass door leading out onto the small deck, though you keep the screen door locked. “Be quiet,” you hiss over at him.

He seems to immediately realize what you mean, and hobbles over to you, looking distraught. “Sorry,” he says. “Can… can you help me? My leg’s hurt. I need to clean it and bandage it. Or anything. You don’t have to let me in. My name’s Lee,” he adds after a moment of hard silence.

“I’m Sandra. Wait here and be quiet,” you say, wondering why you told him your name. You are not stupid and you’re not going to let him in just because he’s polite. But you’re also not an asshole. 

You get some rubbing alcohol, wipes, and bandages from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. You should probably clear that entire cabinet out, in case you have to leave in a hurry. You also get some painkillers and a water bottle, though you only realize then that the taps no longer work.

You make him back all the way off the deck so he can’t bum rush you, unlock the screen door, push the stuff out to him, then swiftly relock it.

He curses and grimaces as he cleans his wound, which looks like it needs stitches (though not like a bite mark) and maybe even a cast, but you can tell he is trying not to scare you. 

When he’s done, he downs the entire water bottle while he takes the painkillers, then says, “You’re by yourself?”

You nod jerkily, not moving from the door. What happens now? Should you give him the wrench? It’s better than no weapon at all. 

“What about your family?” he asks, brow creased. For a moment, you don’t think he is faking sympathy or fishing for information, but genuinely concerned. There’s a teacherly way about him, like your high school guidance counselor or your cross country coach. 

“It’s just me and my dad, and he had a trip to Puerto Rico,” you say. “I don’t know when I’m gonna see him again.”

“But this isn't your house,” he says, frowning.

You tense up. “What are you talking about?”

He holds up the prescription bottle. The name on it is the kid’s mother’s, and her name is Diana, not Sandra.

You wince. There’s a noise from the living room behind you. 

“Sandra?” the kid whispers, loudly, having overheard your quiet conversation. “Can I come out now?”

You want to shout at her, but you can’t without making even more noise.

“Who’s that?” he asks, frowning. 

Glaring, you wave the kid over, though you keep her partly behind you. 

“She’s my babysitter,” she informs Lee. “She’s mostly nice. I’m nice too. My name’s Clementine.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says. The look in his eyes to you says, I understand. 

You trust him a little more. If he really wanted to, he could easily force his way through the screen door, and he is taking a big risk just sitting idle on the deck, exposed to the… to the sick people. 

You stay like that for a little while longer, talking through the screen. He wants to head south to try to reach his family in Macon. You have no idea if things are better in Macon or not, and you don’t like the idea of going down to see for yourself. 

But you also can’t bring yourself to tell him to go away and leave you and the kid alone. The isolation has been crushing and though he is a stranger, it feels good to talk to a seemingly responsible and sane adult. 

He tells you he’s a teacher, liked you guessed. History. You tell him that your dad is an engineer, like the kid’s parents. They’re colleagues. She tells him she’s almost done with third grade, though it’s pretty boring. 

There’s more noise from the road as the day stretches on, and more noise from the fencing. At one point, while the kid is getting something from her room, Lee tell you that there are as many as two dozen… people in the woods, trying to get over this fence. And probably as many wandering the neighborhood. 

“We can’t stay here,” you admit. It’s both relieving and horrifying to say it aloud. “But we don’t have a car.”

“Maybe we can find one,” he says, then, seeing the look on your face, clarifies. “Not that I’m saying we need to go anywhere together. But-,”

“No,” you say. “I get it. And… and I don’t think you’re a dangerous person.”

He seems oddly struck by that. “Thanks.” Then, “So do we go while it’s still light out, or wait until night?”

“Light,” you say, immediately. “They don’t seem to notice or care when it gets dark, and… and I think their hearing is better than their vision, anyways.”

“So we’ll go soon, then,” he says, seeming to steel himself. He tests putting some weight on his bad leg, and winces. “Quick and careful. Like mice.”

“I like mice,” the kid says, coming back with her precious walkie talkies. “And we can use these if we get separated!”

They probably only cover a range of a few miles, but you smile and agree anyways. Now it’s time to pack. 

If you have to run, you can’t be weighed down by a massive backpack, so you choose carefully. You have a few days worth of clothes here with you, and an extra pair of shoes, and you narrow that down to what you absolutely need, and go through their closets as well, trying not to feel guilty. 

All three of you are going to need sturdy clothes and sweaters for in case it gets cold. Hats wouldn’t hurt, either. You get Lee a shirt of the dad’s, and a pair of hiking boots. You change into a pair of old jeans and reliable sneakers, and pull your ponytail through a baseball cap. 

You make the kid put on jeans and sneakers too, not just a sundress and legging and sandals. She reminds you about her hatYou shove as much water bottles, granola bars, and balled up packages of cereal into two backpacks, as well as everything in the medicine cabinet, and give the heavier pack to Lee. 

You also give him the bat, since he’s probably still stronger than you. Maybe this is a terrible idea that is going to get you and the kid murdered, but you might die in this house if you stay here any longer. You put the wrench in your back pocket; you turn off your phone to conserve power and put that in the other. The kid gives Lee her other walkie talkie. 

You say a silent goodbye to this house, and then the three of you creep down the street, trying to stay low and quiet, ducking behind houses and cutting through abandoned yards when you can. Lee takes the lead, despite his bad limp; you’re certainly not volunteering to go first.

You’ve made it maybe two blocks when Lee motions towards the street, where there are several seemingly empty cars. Maybe one of them still has the keys in it, or can be hotwired, or something, you know nothing about that stuff, only how to change your own tire and oil, because your dad insisted on it.

You really miss your dad right now. He would know what to do and where to go. He’d have a plan. You have always shied away from the bright, painful light of his rationality. He makes everything sound so obvious, so neat, like mathematical equations. 

Your indecisiveness and meekness has always pained him, you feel. He was supposed to raise you to be self-reliant and strong. Instead you are always seeking strangers’ approval. 

But as you draw closer, it becomes clear one of the cars is in fact, occupied, though the engine’s been cut. A boy around your age is trying to quietly but swiftly clear the road, pushing the other cars out of the way. 

He’s not having much luck so far, by the looks of things. You wonder why he doesn’t just come back the way he came, but his truck looks ancient, and maybe he’s worried it will still out if he puts it in reverse or something?

He spots you coming about a mile off, and looks terrified, then relieved, when he realizes you’re normal, not sick. He hurries over; there’s no time for pleasantries. 

“Name’s Shawn. I’m driving into the next county,” he says, “to get back to my family. Help me clear the road, I can give you guys a ride.” He seems confused by the makeup of your trio, looking from Lee to you to the kid, but says nothing about it. 

You put the kid in the cab of the truck, and you and Lee set to work helping him push the other cars out of the way. By the time you’re done, you’re sweating and shaking a little with adrenaline, because you can hear approaching groans; you’ve attracted attention, as quiet as you were trying to be. 

“Go, go, go,” Shawn says, to himself or to you and Lee, and you waste no time. You all but vault into the back of the truck, shocked at your own speed, then help haul Lee up as he winces from the pressure on his leg. 

Shawn struggles to start the engine, and your heart drops, but then it roars to life, and even as the infected shamble closer, the truck whizzes off, skidding around the curb.

Watching a once familiar neighborhood disappear into the distance like this is a very strange feeling.

“That was a miracle,” you say to Lee, almost lying down in the back of the truck. 

The cool air is refreshing on your flushed and sweaty face. Your ponytail is sticking to your scalp. You have reddish brown hair like your mom, but your dad’s darker coloring. One of your friends in high school said it made you look like a Bratz doll, only with a tiny head. You’ve never examined the thought further.

The kid has gotten open the back cab window to talk to you. “I thought miracles had to do with God,” she says. She’s sticking her head out of the window like a dog, grinning when the wind ripples against her face. 

“Sometimes with people, too,” you say. 

“Yeah,” Lee agrees. He sounds exhausted, and you grow concerned when he closes his eyes, until you realize he’s just sleeping, his chest gently rising and falling. He sleeps like the dead for the next hour. 

During that time, the kid also nods off, and after a little while you scoot yourself close enough to the cab window to be able to talk to Shawn through it. 

He’s twenty four and works at a lumber yard when he’s not helping out around the family farm. They sell produce, mostly, and whatever milk and eggs they have to spare on the weekends. To be honest, they’d never have been able to keep it in the same hands for this long if his mom hadn’t come from some serious southern belle money. 

But she’s dead, actually, and his dad remarried to a really nice lady and had another kid with her. So there’s three of them; Shawn, his sister Maggie, who’s around the same age as Sandra, and their baby sister Beth, who’s a junior in high school. 

“My mom’s dead too,” you say. You always say that. It just makes more sense than ‘my mom got committed to the psych ward when I was five after a nervous breakdown and then fucked off to God knows where when they finally let her out’. 

You want Shawn to like you because he’s kind of the one in control right now, driving this truck to a place you’ve never been and people you’ve never met, so you tell him more about herself than she told Lee.

You tell him about your dad, how he’s an agricultural engineer and how he raised you in the same small, tidy house for twenty years, how he flew out to Puerto Rico just before you came home for spring break to sort out your grandparents’ house with his siblings, and how the plan was that you would watch the kid- Clementine- for the first week of your break, then fly down to Florida and meet up with some friends in Miami for the rest of it. 

Only that didn’t work out too well. And now your neighborhood is overrun with sick people trying to kill everyone, and you can’t get in contact with Clementine’s parents, and you don’t really know what to do.

“What about him?” Shawn jerks his head at Lee’s sleeping form. “How’d he come into the mix? I thought he was her dad,” he sounds slightly embarrassed.

“He came into our yard injured,” You don’t want to lie, but you don’t want to make Lee out to be some kind of criminal, either. “He didn’t seem dangerous, so I got him some supplies for his leg. But I think he needs stitches. And for it to be looked at by a real doctor.”

“My dad can take a look at it,” Shawn says. “He’s a vet.” He pauses, and for a moment the only sounds are the wind and the engine. 

You’re’ on a dark country road; there doesn’t seem to be any other traffic. The suburbs they drove through before this were in pretty bad shape; a couple houses on fire, some with cars wrecked in the yard or felled poles. Sometimes there were people lying in the road who staggered to their feet when the truck raced by. 

“Do you trust him?” he asks. “I mean, you don’t even know this guy.”

“I don’t think he’s a bad person,” you say, hoping you’re not very wrong, “He didn’t seem to want to hurt us, or steal from us, or anything, and he could have, even with a bad leg.”

Shawn just nods. He tries to turn the radio back on, but when he did before it was just recorded emergency warnings telling everyone to stay inside and remain calm.

“Why were you so far from home, anyways?” you ask.

“I was looking for a friend,” he says. “Trying to pick him up from his school, but when I got there it was… it was really bad,” his tone sours. “I couldn’t find him. So I had to leave.” He’s clearly upset with himself about this.

“It was pretty brave of you to try, anyways,” you say. “Most people would have just hid at home.”

“Yeah,” Shawn says. “Well, my dad doesn’t even believe any of this is real, so.”

“Ah,” you say. “Well, my dad used to argue with me about global warming, so. I think it’s a dad thing. Not wanting to trust the uh… the news.”

He chuckles a little at that. You’ve never ridden in the back of a truck before, but it’s not so bad. 

The rusting metal is still warm, even after the sun’s gone down, and you can see stars overhead, more stars than you’ve ever seen before. They’re beautiful. You wonder if this means there’s power outages, so the light pollution from the cities is weakened. 

In that moment, you don’t care. The night sky shimmers overhead, like velvet studded with tiny beads of light. The moon is round and full. 

Lee wakes as you turn onto what seems like a private road. Woods chitter and chirp around you, crickets and night birds. The air smells dense and leafy. 

“We’re here,” you tell him, feeling oddly grateful. He was the impetus for getting you to take the kid and go in the first place. Without him, you might have stayed there, paralyzed with fear, and died for it. You don’t always like living, but you don’t want to die yet.

Shawn parks the truck with some other vehicles in an open-air garage, and helps you and Lee out of the back of the truck. The kid is dead on her feet, rubbing at her eyes and swaying a little. You grab her shoulder as figures with flashlights appear; two men and one woman, a girl your age. 

“Shawn!” she pulls him into a fierce embrace; the older of the two men, who looks old enough to be his grandfather, never mind his father, pats him on the back. 

“Good to have you home again, son.”

“Where’s Chet?” asks the other one; a husky man in his fifties. 

Shawn just shakes his head, scowling. 

“Well,” says Shawn’s father, “introduce us to your… friends then, go on.” He doesn’t sound angry, exactly, but he doesn’t look thrilled either.

“This is Sandra,” Shawn says, nodding to you. You smile and try to look polite and grateful, as opposed to exhausted and dirty. “I got stuck in her neighborhood while trying to get home. She and Lee helped me out.”

“And me,” the kid says sleepily. “I helped too. I was the lookout.”

Maggie looks from one of you to the other. “You’re a neighbor too?” she asks Lee. 

“No,” he says. “I’m from Macon. I was driving out of Atlanta when I got into a wreck.” He takes a step forward to try to shake Shawn’s dad’s hand, but winces again.

“Hershel Greene,” the man says, shaking his hand anyways. “This is Otis and Maggie, my daughter.”

“Dad, without them it might have gone real bad for me,” Shawn says. “I’m serious. You can trust them, they’re good people.”

He’s taking a big risk vouching for all three of you like that, and you smile gratefully at him, not faking it this time. 

The kid yawns, but says aloud, “I’m starving. Can we have something to eat, please?”

Maggie and Otis chuckle. Hershel smiles faintly. “We’ll see what we can do.”

‘What we can do’ means you and the kid are ushered into a small kitchen and given what seems like some leftover casserole and greens, while Hershel tends to Lee’s leg on the porch.

“He’s probably interrogating the hell out of him,” Maggie rolls her eyes. 

She’s a couple inches taller than you and have a sporty, athletic look to her; her chestnut brown hair is cropped short and she’s wearing an old high school tee shirt over her worn out jeans and boots. “But he’ll stitch him up, don’t worry.” 

She keeps her voice down, explaining that her stepmother and sister are upstairs asleep, along with Otis’ wife, Patricia. Otis and Patricia help them run the farm; usually they live in a little cottage on the other side of the property, but since ‘this all started’ they’ve been staying in the guest bedroom of the house.

“Where can we sleep?” you ask, after devouring the cold meal. You try to give her some money for it, but she refuses, scoffing at the idea. 

“There’s this family staying in our hayloft,” Maggie says. “Guess my dad will have you bunk down with them. They’re from Florida. But nice enough, don’t worry about it.”

“How long have they been here?” the kid asks curiously, as she polishes off her glass of milk; it’s given her a mustache. 

You’re not sure if they still have power or not; you ate in the dark by lantern light, but even if they don’t, a farm probably has multiple generators for emergencies anyways. 

“They turned up yesterday morning,” Maggie shrugs. “Their car needed a new tire and a tune-up. Daddy wants them gone by tomorrow, says we ain’t running a boarding house.”

She sees the look on your face, and adds, “But hey, they’re heading down to Savannah anyways, I heard. Maybe they’ll give you a ride?”

You don’t want to go to Savannah, but the kid brightens, to your dismay. 

“My parents were in Savannah,” she says. “Maybe we can find them.”

You smile stiffly, no longer hungry. Maggie gives you both some blankets and pillows, and walks you out to the barn, her flashlight illuminating the path ahead of you. 

The darkness is no longer as comforting as it was in the back of the truck. You wonder how secure this farm really is, but try to tell yourself it’s probably much safer since it’s so remote. 

Lee is already waiting for you in the barn. His leg isn’t in a cast but it is wrapped up, and he looks no worse for the wear, having already spread out a quilt to lie down on. The kid waves at the sight of him, and he smiles and waves back. 

“Did you eat?” you ask him, quietly. You can just barely make out sleeping figures in the gloom.

He nods, then looks at Maggie. “Tell your dad thanks again. Really.”

“Will do,” Maggie salutes you with the flashlight, half-jokingly, and leaves you to it. 

You and the kid arrange yourself on the floor. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s better than sleeping outside and at least you’re warm and safe enough. 

“Do you think my dad’s still in the hospital?” she whispers.

“I don’t know,” you say. You’re too tired and overwhelmed to tell her the truth, which is that her dad is probably dead, or… or one of those sick people, hungry for meat and nothing else. 

Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe Savannah is under control of the military or something, maybe it’s safe. It’s still a four hour drive from here with a full tank of gas, assuming all the roads are clear. 

And what if it’s not safe? You think about how many were roaming your neighborhood. That was twenty minutes outside the city. What about the city proper? 

“Let’s just sleep,” you say, more to yourself than to her, “and we’ll figure out what to do in the morning.”

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Goodnight, Sandra. You’re a good babysitter.”

“No problem,” you say, like you just took her out for ice cream or something, instead of to a stranger’s dark barn in the middle of nowhere. 

You roll over, trying to get comfortable without being jabbed by straw, and dream that you’re at the airport with your dad, boarding a plane. You don’t know where it’s going, and you are the only ones in the cabin. He sits next to you and squeezes your hand as you look out the window at all the dead on the tarmac, and start to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

MARCH

You wake up with a backache and hay in your hair, which the kid is carefully picking out, piece by piece, as she chats with Lee, who looks a good deal better in the light of day, well rested and able to stand without looking agonized, and another man with weathered, suntanned skin that speaks to a life lived primarily outdoors, and greying hair tucked under a ratty cap. 

Not that you can judge much, you think, as you prop yourself up on your aching elbows and shake more hay off your baseball cap, which your dad brought back for you from a work trip to North Carolina when you were ten. 

“Sleeping Beauty awakens, eh?” says the man, but his eyes crinkle as he smiles down at you, and you don’t feel uncomfortable with his gaze, just vaguely annoyed at the clamor. 

A skinny little boy is leaping from bale to bale, all but shouting with laughter, ignoring the protests of his mother; you assume this must be his son. 

As the boy wobbles on one, struggling to keep his balance, his father turns around as if summoned and barks, “Duck! Get down from there before you break your damn neck!” but there’s no real bite or anger to it. If anything, he looks fondly exasperated as he turns back to you.

“My son, Kenny Jr,” he explains to you and Lee. “But we just call him Duck. Always quacking about something. Or running ‘round like his head’s cut off.”

“I thought that was chickens that did that,” Lee says dryly, which Kenny Sr doesn’t immediately get, before he grins and chuckles.

“Yeah, good one.” He addresses the kid, who smiles shyly up at him. “You can go on and play with Duck, little lady, and if he gets too wild just give him a smack on the nose. Or call his mother. She’ll set him straight.”

She glances at you. “You can play,” you say, feeling this is the right and normal thing to say. She’s a child, she should be with other children. “Just stay where the adults can see you, okay?”

“Kay,” she says, then puts on her own cap, the one her dad gave her before he left, concealing her hair, which really needs to be fixed. 

Her mom showed you how to do a little with it before she left, but you’re not sure your efforts have amounted to much. Maybe Lee might know, if he ever had sisters or nieces. 

“We match,” she informs you, before darting off to join Kenny.

You turn your baseball cap over in your hands, examining your dirty nails, as you get up. You feel rumpled and smelly, but at least you’re alive and in one piece, albeit hungry all over again. 

“Kenny and I were just talking about Macon,” Lee says. 

Kenny nods; he seems decisive, you note, or at least puts on a good show of it; there’s no hidden reluctance or fear in his dark eyes. “Figure the old man- not that we’re not grateful- wants us gone by midday, and I don’t much like the idea of driving around in the dark with no GPS.”

“What time is it?” you ask, wishing you’d thought to bring a watch, but Lee checks his. 

“Half past seven,” he says, which is a relief. At least you didn’t sleep half the day away. “Guess this is making all of us into early risers.”

“Better early than never,” Kenny snorts, then admits, “anyways, Macon is on our way, and I’d be happy to give you folks a ride.”

Lee glances at you, cautious. “I need to see my family,” he says. “See if they’re alright. I got parents and a brother there. But… you’re under no obligation to come along.”

“The little girl said her parents were in Savannah,” Kenny looks at you. “That’s our destination. Gonna see if I can get us a boat, assuming there’s no quarantine zone set up down there, and go up the coast. Seems safer than driving, assuming these fuckers can’t swim.”

You laugh a little at the joke, but you know you can’t hide the dismayed look on your face. Kenny seems to sense this, and retreats a little, almost sheepishly, as if his wife had called for him. “Anyways,” he says, “that’s our plan. Nice to meet you- Sandra, right?”

“Sandra,” you nod, smiling tightly. “Nice to meet you, too.”

As he meanders back over to his wife, a kind looking woman who is going through their luggage, you and Lee walk out into the bright early morning sunlight. It’s a beautiful day, not a cloud in the pale blue spring sky, and the breeze is refreshing and cool. 

“I just don’t think I should take her down there,” you say.

“Hey,” says Lee, seriously. You look at him. “Whatever you decide,” he says, “don’t let anyone pressure you into changing your mind about it. Her parents trusted you, they left her with you. It should be your decision.”

“She’ll hate me,” you swallow back a lump in her throat. “But her parents- they were at the hospital. And the last time her mom called me, it sounded… bad. I just… I don’t know that Savannah will be in much better shape than Atlanta. And… it’s a long way down there. We can’t just change our minds and turn around halfway.”

“It is,” says Lee. “It’s a long way. Kenny seems like a decent guy. He was telling me about how one of the… sick people attacked his son at a gas station. He fought him off bare-handed. He reckons he has enough gas in his tank to make it to Macon. Then we- well, I’d be staying with my family, if they’re still there, and they’d have to find more gas to keep going. He’s set on a boat. Says he’s a commercial fisherman.”

You try to pretend your dad is here with you, his warm hands on your shoulders. Listen up, mija, he says, his breath hot in her hair. Let’s think about this. What are the risks? What are the rewards? 

The risks? Getting into a car crash. The car breaking down and stranding you on the road, surrounded by dead people or people who aren’t as dead as they should be. Getting to Macon but finding it overrun. Not being able to find more gas for the road in Macon. Getting through Macon but then getting stranded somewhere else. Getting attacked. 

Getting eaten alive like that one clip on Twitter that went viral before it got removed. Starving to death because you can’t find enough food. Dying of dehydration because you can’t find clean water. Drinking dirty water, getting sick from it, and dying. You or the kid getting injured, the injury getting infected, and dying. Someone kidnapping her. Someone kidnapping you. Losing her in the chaos. Losing yourself in the chaos. 

Reaching Savannah, but it being overrun. Reaching Savannah and there being nothing left, not even any boats. Having come all that way for nothing. It taking weeks and weeks to reach Savannah. It taking months to reach Savannah. And everything that could go wrong, those chances increasing over that length of time, as spring turns to summer turns to fall. 

The rewards? You and the kid escape major injury and death all the way down there, find Savannah miraculously under control and contained, get past whoever is in charge of letting people in and out of the city, and reunite with her parents, assuming they are both still alive. And then what? She has her parents. And you have… well, what do you have? Yourself. A boat to San Juan? 

“I can’t take her there,” you say, aloud. Lee is standing steadily beside you, not annoyed or aggravated. You appreciate his quiet respect more than you can say. You don’t know him. He doesn’t know you. But he is standing by you all the same. “I can’t.” 

You exhale, and look around the farm. You spot Maggie in the distance with another girl, going into the animal barn, both wearing faded work clothes. There’s the sound of a table saw growling nearby; maybe Shawn? 

A cat sits on a fence post, licking at itself. 

“But I don’t know that they’ll let us stay here,” you say. “Shawn… Shawn told me his dad doesn’t think this is a big deal. That’ll pass over quick. He might tell us we can either go with you or get out.”

“I talked to him last night,” Lee says. “Not about you or her,” he adds. “But I don’t think he’s going to put you and a little girl out on the road like that. He just doesn’t want his farm turning into a campground.”

“I guess.” You toe at the dirt underfoot. “I’ll try to talk to Shawn about it,” you say, though you don’t want to, you feel a strange almost anger at the thought of having to plead for something like this, for shelter and safety, but what else can you do? You can’t just sit around moping.

You cut around to the animal barn and slip inside, taking a moment to get used to the smell. Maggie and a blonde girl are laying down fresh hay for the cows and sweeping stalls. You assume the blonde one must be Beth, who seems delicate and fragile compared to her hardy older sister, though less fragile with a pitchfork in hand. 

“Need any help?” you call out awkwardly. 

Maggie doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. We got some brooders that need cleaning out now that the chicks are in the henhouse.” The henhouse is attached to the barn through a wire frame door, next to the pig pen and turkey yard. 

You don’t actually know what a brooder is, but Beth comes over and shows you. She has a shy smile but doesn’t so much as flinch when a mouse scurries over the toe of her boot. The brooders are basically just big containers. You empty out the filthy bedding and take out the water bottles and feeders, then hose them down outside. 

An older woman comes up to you and introduces herself as Patricia; she reminds you of someone from your college, maybe one of your professors; she has a lined, soft face and feathery hair. She shows you where to store the cleaned brooders, and then brings you back in to help her collect eggs and feed the chickens, which are much louder and smellier than you expected. 

After that there’s some weeding to be done in the vegetable garden, and Maggie comes over with coffee and bagels. You tear into yours, then remember the kid with a stab of guilt. “I should give her the other half of this.”

“Beth brought her some oatmeal a while ago,” Maggie says, sipping her her chipped mug, which say HONOR STUDENT on the side of it. Her brows furrow. “You really care about that kid, huh?”

“I’m her babysitter,” you say, oddly defensive. Truth be told, you don’t even like kids all that much in general.

“Yeah,” says Maggie, grinning a little, “but it’s not like they’re paying you anymore, right?”

“Maggie,” Patricia says reprovingly, like an aunt, and Maggie flushes. 

“I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry.”

You chew and swallow the bagel in your mouth. “I don’t know that her parents are ever coming back. They were down in Savannah. Her dad got bit by… by someone and they were in the hospital. The last time her mom called me, there was all this screaming.” 

You hope you don’t sound like you’re fishing for sympathy, but at the same time you are, in fact, doing just that. You need to stay here. Not forever. But until this… whole thing is over. Which is probably going to be a few months, at least. And that means they have to feel sorry for you, and that they can’t in good conscience just kick you out. 

Beth is watching you with wide green eyes, but says nothing but “I should go check on Mom,” she says, and walks quickly away, head down.

“My stepmom’s been sick,” Maggie says, nonchalantly, as if she can will it away with how casual she talks about it.

Sick like on the news, you wonder?

Patricia isn’t stupid; she sees what you’re thinking. “We’re keeping her away from the rest of the family, in the attic,” she says. “She’s been doing better these past few days. But she had breast cancer a few years back, and her health’s never been great after all that chemo.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I hope she feels better.”

“She will,” says Maggie, almost brusquely. “She’s a tough lady, or Dad wouldn’t have married her.”

Sick mom, you think. What if she gets worse? What if she dies? What if she bites someone before she dies, or she dies and doesn’t stay that way? 

But they’re at least taking some precautions. She’s not roaming around. They keep her away from other people. Compared to the road… your mind is still made up. 

“Shawn wants to reinforce most of the southern fencing today,” Maggie says, finishing off her coffee. She stands just like her brother Shawn, with a casual sort of slouch that makes her seem a little younger than she is, teenaged. 

“He’ll probably get Kenny-from-Florida and that Lee guy to help him. Otis is fixing the water lines going to the greenhouse.” She looks at you. “How about you? You know how to hammer shit?”

“Maggie,” Patricia says again, but she’s smiling a little.

“Yeah,” you say, though not really. 

“Then come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

A ride turns out to be a horse. Her favorite horse, Major. She says a bunch of horsey stuff you don’t understand about what type of horse he is, exactly, but he’s fifteen years old and still her favorite. She’s done barrel racing on him a few times at the county fair, but he’s really more of a workhorse than an athlete.

You watch as she bridles and saddles him in confused silence, wondering how and where you come into play here, and then stare as she swings up into the saddle and extends an arm down.

“Come on,” she says. Her arm is hard and wiry with lean muscle and she’s wearing rough leather work gloves, like a real cowgirl. 

“You want me to-,”

“Right behind me,” she grins at your obvious nerves, and you try not to look like an idiot, though it takes two haphazard attempts to get up behind her. 

“Hold on,” she says, and you keep one hand on her shoulder, the other on her waist like this were an awkward school dance as Major walks out of the barn and trots down the lane. You spot Kenny’s wife, Katjaa, as you ride by, talking to Beth, who has a kitten in her arms. 

They both wave, looking amused, and you flush, then turn back into Maggie’s slim back. Her hair smells good, like coconut shampoo, and the back of her neck is a shade darker than the rest of her, a true farmer’s tan. 

“So,” she says, as the farm stretches out around you, gold and green and brown. “Where d’you go to school?”

You tell her; it’s not very impressive, but she whistles like it is, which makes you look away, even though she can’t see where you’re looking. 

“I just did community college,” she says. “Well. Am doing. Not sure what my midterm schedule will be looking like,” she snorts. “Yeah. Daddy wanted me to really push myself and get into a good school, since Shawn dropped out after a year, but I wasn’t too into school.”

“What about your mug?” you ask, and are oddly pleased when she laughs aloud at that.

“That’s Beth’s. She’s the bookworm in the family. Shawn was the boy scout. And I was the athlete.”

“I did cross country,” you say. You weren’t very good at it, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Yeah? I did field hockey and softball,” she sounds proud of herself. “Had a pretty good arm, too… just not good enough to go to school for it. Doesn’t really matter at this point.”

“I don’t know,” you say, watching the cloud of dust rise up around Major’s flanks as he continues down the lane. “Maybe you could throw fastballs at them. The… the infected, I mean.”

She doesn’t laugh but you think she might be grinning from the way she turns her cheek slightly. You feel a stab of hope. Maybe you will befriend her. It’s been very, very lonely since you came home for your spring break, even before everything went to shit. And you can’t talk to your friends from school anymore. You think of them preparing to fly into Miami, only to unpack their suitcases as flights were cancelled. Then to repack them as families evacuated. 

You shouldn’t forget them, you think, though that’s silly. They’re probably all fine. 

Kayla, Nick, Jasmine, Courtney, Danny, you tell yourself. Remember. 

She reins up when you reach what must be their southern most grazing meadow; in the distance, the cows are making their way down. Shane and the others are spread out along the wire fencing, reinforcing it with wooden planks and beams at the places where it seems likely a person who doesn’t feel pain anymore could force apart the wire and clamber through. Or a lot of persons. 

Your job ends up being to saw planks in half, which is harder than it looks, but you’re not about to admit it. You keep having to mop your bangs out of your eyes, though, and your arms keep wobbling from exertion. Luckily no one is watching you, save for Maggie with those green eyes she shares with her sister, but she doesn’t comment aloud on your frailty.

You know you should say something to Shawn, he’s your entrance to the rest of the family, and he’s technically known you the longest… by a few hours. But you can’t just bring it up out of the blue, you feel, and he’s busy joking back and forth with Lee and Kenny. This feels like summer camp or something. 

You went to summer camp a few times, when your dad could afford it. Swim camp, you remember that, the chlorine burning in your nose after the instructor tossed you bodily into the pool. How you floundered and screeched like a drowning cat until your body took over and you started to paddle. 

You’re not a bad swimmer now, though you’ll take a pool over the ocean every time. The unknown vastness always frightened you. Even on sunny summer days.

Maggie takes the boards from you as soon as each one is split, and seems vaguely impressed with your commitment to struggling in silence. After a half hour or so of this, the sun is really beating down, and you all break for water. 

You realize with dismay you didn’t think to grab one of the bottles you brought in your bag- see, this is why you’d never make it out on the road- but luckily they have extra. 

Water runs down your chin and neck as you drink, but you can’t even work up the energy to be self conscious about it. 

“Hey,” Shawn is saying, as Kenny swats at flies with his cap, and Lee sprawls on the ground- you’re shocked he’s even out here, but it looks like he got a ride down in the truck, while you got the rustic version of that- “at least this way we’ll have earned whatever Patricia’s making for lunch.”

“God, it better not be more casserole,” Maggie mutters, and you laugh, though the casserole from last night was really not bad at all. 

“Nah,” Shawn says, leaning against his half-finished reinforcements, smirking. “You know that buck Otis got last week? I heard she’s defrosting that, so you better eat up, Mags-,”

Maggie screams suddenly at the hands dragging Shawn back, pinning him to the wood as he struggles to break free. 

Kenny backs away, eyes like saucers in his weather face, swearing in shock, and Lee just stares for a moment, before starting to lurch to his feet.

“HELP HIM!” Maggie shouts, dashing forward, but you’re the one who sees the hammer lying in the dirt. 

You pick it up, and don’t so much as run but feel momentum carry you forward. You’re not scared, you don’t have time to be scared, Shawn is thrashing trying to break lose of the dead man’s grip, and Maggie is pulling at him ineffectually, and the mouth is hanging open, and the hammer in your hand cracks it in the jaw. 

The jaw breaks and more so slobbers on Shawn’s neck instead of biting, and your second swing opens up a deep gash in the forehead, like splitting a fruit, and then Lee is right beside you, wrenches the hammer from your sweaty hands, and brings it down once, twice, again- you see brain matter on the hammer, and the corpse sags to the ground. 

You don’t really remember exactly what happens after that, only a lot of screaming and yelling and moving around, and then you’re crammed in the truck cab in between a dazed and shaking Shawn and a motormouth Kenny, spewing off swears in between frantic questions and explanations. Maggie is back in the saddle with Lee behind her, galloping on Major, head down and face red with tears.

Back at the house, Hershel comes running out, Beth and Patricia on his heels, and for a few frantic moments Shawn kneels in the dirt, chin tilted up towards the blinding midday sun, while his father inspects his neck. The skin isn’t broken. There are tears beading in his closed eyes, as if he’s waiting to be baptised, absolved of something. After a moment you realize he is praying, frantically, under his breath.

“Oh, thank Christ,” Maggie says hoarsely, swinging down from the saddle after letting Lee clamber down first. 

“Language, Maggie,” her father says mildly, as he helps Shawn back to his feet.

“Dad,” Shawn says. “That one was just wandering down along the fence line. We’ve got to take this serious. I mean it. I never even heard him coming at me. It was Rob Murphy.”

“Is he dead?” Hershel asks, sounding aggrieved, and you start to cry. 

Then you see Clementine, standing with Katjaa and Duck, and you cry all the more, because she’s watching you, who is supposed to the adult here, cry big fat tears like a toddler, and also she knows you technically murdered someone even if they were maybe already dead. More specifically, you hit them repeatedly with a hammer until Lee finished them off. But their brains are still on your tee shirt. 

They let you go inside their house and take a shower. Someone brings your backpack in for you and leaves it on the toilet seat. The house is oddly quiet save for the ticking of a grandfather clock when you come back downstairs. Lee is standing in what must be the foyer. It looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1950s, at least. The floorboards creak under your squeaking sneakers. There’s still blood on the toes.

“We’re leaving soon,” he says to you, then clarifies, “Me and Kenny’s family.” He pauses. “If you’ve changed your mind.”

“We killed their neighbor.”

“Their neighbor was dead well before that,” Lee says firmly. “And no one’s blaming you for it. But Hershel wants Kenny gone.”

“It wasn’t Kenny’s fault. He panicked. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.” You panicked too, you just panicked in a different way, with a hammer. 

“I know,” he lowers his voice even more. “But when people go through a shock like this, it makes them close off. And it’s easy to point fingers at someone for freezing up.”

“But I-,” you feel very tired, suddenly. 

“You saved Shawn’s life. Don’t think they take that lightly.”

“So did you.”

He just looks sadly at you, his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t slouch like you or the older Greene kids. He stands up straight, but not proud. “Yeah. But I’ve got to go to Macon. That was always the plan.”

You inhale, exhale, trying to calm yourself. “What… what if that doesn’t work out?”

He knows what you mean. “Then maybe I’ll make my way back up here,” he says. “It depends. But whatever happens… you’re a good person, Sandra.”

“So are you.”

He looks oddly struck again. “Yeah. I’m trying.” 

You almost feel the urge to embrace him, though that’s ridiculous, you only met him yesterday. 

“Be safe. Out there on the road.” You hope his family is alright. They’re probably worried sick.

You think of your dad, at the house in San Juan you’ve only ever heard about, sitting out back with your aunts and uncles, his head in his hands, listening to the radio squawk and chatter. You hope it’s not as bad there. The last news said global, but they always forget places like Puerto Rico. Maybe they closed the ports in time. Or the airports. Like the one your dad flew into a week and a half ago, on a plane full of possibly infected people from Atlanta.

“You too,” he says. “Stay alert. They’re good people, I think, but sheltered. You know. The way a lot of us are. And the mother’s sick, isn’t she?”

“She’s quarantined.”

“Still.”

The two of you exchange uneasy smiles.

“Lee? Sandra?” The kid is poking her head around the corner. 

“I have to get going,” Lee tells her with an amiable, ‘all will be well’ kind of reassuring smile. “But we’ll see each other around?”

“I guess so,” she says doubtfully, but then says, “Remember your walkie talkie!”

“Oh no,” he says, glancing at you, “you should keep that for you and Sandra.”

“No,” you say. “No… you keep it. So you can let us know if you’re ever close by again.”

He looks touched. 

Clementine comes over and shakes his hand, like a little adult, and you watch from the porch as Kenny’s family finishes loading up their car. Patricia comes out and gives Katjaa some canned goods and extra water bottles, and Duck comes over to say goodbye, suddenly much more subdued than the last you saw of him, staring at the ground. Kenny is already in the driver’s seat, but he leans out the window to wave when he sees you and Clementine.

You feel a pang of something in your chest. You hope they know what they’re doing. You hope you know what you’re doing. What if Shawn had been killed? What if you’d gotten yourself bit trying to help him?

You feel sick as you watch them pull away, but you wave at Lee’s figure in the passenger seat all the same. 

After they’re gone, Patricia walks you into what seems like a family meeting in the Greene’s small, white-washed dining room, at dark pine table that could be a hundred years old.

“Well,” says Hershel, at the head of it. “It seems like we owe you some thanks, Sandra. And the Lord above, for keeping Shawn safe.”

“And Lee,” the kid pipes up.

His mouth twitches slightly. “And Lee.” You still can’t tell if the old man likes you, or has been coerced and bullied into letting you stay on by his kids. 

“You and Clementine,” says Hershel, “are welcome to stay here until all this blows over. I don’t expect that’ll be too long. A few weeks, maybe.”

You glance at Maggie, who arches her eyebrows but says nothing. 

“Thank you,” you say hoarsely. Your wet hair is still dripping down the back of your neck. “So much. Really. I… we’re really grateful to you and your family.”

“And then when things are better, we can find my parents,” the kid says, looking at you. 

You nod, slowly. The sick feeling returns. You can’t let her live on false hope, can you?

“We’re not a hotel,” Hershel goes on. “So we do expect you to put some work in.” He glances at Clementine, and smiles slightly. “Not you. You can do some schoolwork. We homeschooled Beth when she was younger, and I expect she still has some of her old books lying around.”

Beth nods, looking almost cheerful at the thought of playing teacher. 

“I can do whatever work you need,” you say, though that’s objectively not true. “I’ll learn quick.”

“Hey,” says Shawn. He’s slumped in his seat, looking pale and drained, but still manages a grin. “You learned a lot of stuff pretty quick today already.”

Maggie laughs, humorlessly, and Hershel wraps things up. Lunch is served. It’s ham sandwiches and cold lemonade. You eat like a starving man. 

You’re supposed to sweep out the hayloft, which you think is just busy work because they probably think you still need to calm down, but the kid comes with you, and amuses herself finding out where all the farm cats’ hiding places are as you rake and sweep. At some point, you realize, it’s now or never, so you call her over. 

“Clementine,” you say. “I have to tell you something. About your mom and dad.”

She looks at you, and you crouch down so you feel less awful about this. 

“You know your dad was in the hospital,” you say. “He got bit.”

She nods, slowly.

“When you get bit,” you say. “You get very sick, and eventually, you die, or… or you become one of those things. The infected people.”

“Are they dead or alive?” she asks, nose wrinkled.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But they’re not like people anymore. They don’t know what they’re doing. They’re… gone.”

“Is my dad one of those now?” her voice trembles, and you wrap an arm around her. 

“I don’t know.”

“But he’s dead?”

“I… I don’t think he’s alive anymore,” you say, very softly. “And your mom… when she last called me, she-,” you pause. 

“She what?”

Sometimes, your dad told you, not often, but sometimes, a kind lie is preferable to a hard truth, you know? Just don’t make it a habit, nena. 

“She said she loved you very much,” you say. “And she said goodbye.”

You stay in that hayloft for a long time, the two of you, trying to work out how hard you have to cry until there’s nothing left in you to shed or melt away.

By the time you’re done, your eyes are swollen and red, both of you, and Patricia is ringing the dinner bell. 

“We’ll go back home once the military comes through,” you tell Clementine, as you walk back to the house through the dusk. “It might be a few months, but we will, and… and your aunt up in Ohio, she’ll come down and stay with you, or your cousins in Reno.” That is all the family of hers that you know of. 

“What about you?” she asks, and you are struck by that. 

“My dad will be able to fly home,” you say, because it is what you must tell yourself so as not to feel like a cast-off floating in a sea of burning wreckage. “He’ll come home. And then we’ll see.”

A week later, Annette dies in her sleep. At least, that’s what you think happens. But the spare barn they most use for old vehicles that need repairs they can’t afford, that’s where she goes, and every morning Patricia or Hershel himself brings her a chicken to eat. 

There is no mourning, no funeral, no real acknowledgement except Beth sometimes weeping in the night, because you share her room, while Clementine sleeps on the pull-out bed in Maggie’s.

You don’t like it. But they padlock the doors shut, and you don’t hear her moaning and grunting unless you stand very, very close. 

A month later, four neighbors have joined her, a family whose kids played with Maggie and Beth when they were small. The son and Beth dated, once upon a time, and the daughter and Maggie played softball together for years.

Two months later, it’s fifteen. The Greenes know almost every one by name, save for a few strangers down from the highway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just posted Chapter 2 of this because I kept rereading it to myself in annoyance. I'm still stuck written into a corner for this fic so I dunno if we're ever going to move past 2 chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

JUNE

It’s been a great spring for deer, that’s for sure. Otis has had pretty regular success out in the woods surrounding the Greene farm and their abandoned neighbors’ land, and it shows no signs of letting up now. He and Shawn took the ATVs, while you and Maggie took Major and Wes, the horse you’ve been learning to ride. 

Wes is a pinto Morgan horse, which Maggie says are the easiest breed for beginners. Clementine’s learning to ride too, but Shawn usually puts her up on Skye, who is an old grey mare, and walks them around the paddock, trying to work up to a trot for longer than a minute or two. 

You can trot by now, and even canter, though it always forces your heart up into your throat. Your thighs feel hard as stone and chafed and ached something terrible the first few weeks, but it’s not so bad now, and Beth leant you a pair of her boots, since Maggie’s feet are too big. 

For protection you have the rifle slung across Maggie’s back, and a bat, though it’s not the same one you brought from Clementine’s house. You let Lee take that one with him. This is an old wooden one really only fit for hitting rotting crabapples, Patricia says, but it still works well enough. 

You haven’t killed anyone else, but you’re hoping to bring down a deer today, or at least watch Maggie do it. She’s an okay shot, by her own admission, but Shawn’s the one who did the sharpshooting competitions in the scouts. Hershel didn’t like the idea of ‘you girls’ going out here alone, but you’re less than a mile from the farm, and you both know you can easily outpace anyone on foot. 

Clementine wanted to come along, but Beth convinced her they’d have more fun picking blueberries with Patricia. It’s nice, not having to watch her every second. When you’re back on the farm, you never go far, but at least you can trust them to take good care of her while you’re gone. There hasn’t been much news, only that Atlanta got firebombed by the military and that Savannah, Augusta, and Columbus probably followed suit. 

It’s both horrifying and reassuring. 

You were right to stay, you tell yourself every morning when you wake up on the air mattress on Beth’s floor, though she’s offered to share the bed. You were right to stay put. It was the sensible move. Still, you’re not family, and it’s hard to always feel on guard, always on your best behavior. 

You haven’t caused any trouble or ever refused any task or chore, but you are always aware that they could kick you out at a moment’s notice, if Hershel tires of extending hospitality to someone who’s not his blood. You don’t think he would, unless he thought you a danger to his family, but you don’t know. 

“Let’s tack up here,” Maggie says, pausing along the deer trail. “I see fresh scat.”

“Right,” you say, running a hand down Wes’ white-and-brown splattered neck, and swing down from the saddle, a little smug at the new ease of your movements. You loosely tie the horses to a tree on the side of the trail, and continue on foot, walking as quietly as possible, mindful of branches and brush underfoot, and always, always, of anything else that might be moving around in the undergrowth. 

Otis made you all put on long sleeves and sturdy jackets, even though it’s sweltering in them; no tramping around the woods in flimsy tee shirts and shorts, plus it’ll be harder for anything to bite through. 

“I can’t wait to see Shawn’s face when we bag one and he doesn’t,” Maggie says softly. “Mr. Smug-as-can-Be. Thinks he’s hot survivalist shit after getting that boar last month.”

“He said it was a lucky shot,” you correct, though you generally stay out of the sibling rivalry. It’s mostly light-hearted, though Shawn is clearly the apple of his father’s eye, for all that they can argue until they’re red in the face. 

“He was just saying that for Dad. You saw the look on him. All smirking. God, it’s like high school all over again. You know he was a cocky little shit back then, captain of the baseball team.”

“Was he any good?”

“Got a scholarship. Then came back home five months later. Couldn’t hack liberal ed.”

She shushes you, though she was the one doing most of the talking, as you break out of the foliage and onto the far-side of a sun-dappled clearing. A bird chirps overhead. 

“Holy shit,” you say, feeling your nerves prickle, and relishing the ability to swear without offending Hershel or Patricia. “There she is.”

A healthy looking doe is grazing at the far end, maybe twenty yards away, half obscured by the brush around her and the shadow of an oak tree. 

Maggie grins; her smile light up her square-jawed, tanned face, and silently removes the rifle from her back. 

“You can get her from here?” you whisper. 

“Hell yeah I can.” She checks the rifle sight. “I can get her clean in the flank. Check the wind.”

You peer through the cheap binoculars looped around your neck, heavy against your flat chest, watching the brush, and how it stirs. Hershel has given you maps of the area to study, so that you know where you are in case of an emergency. You know that today you rode southeast into the wood. 

“From the west.”

“Good.” Maggie clicks off the safety, then positions the earmuffs over her ears. You do likewise, muffling all sound, and suddenly you’re in another world, a strange, comforting one, softness around your eardrums, and the steady thud of your heart in your chest, and the heat of Maggie’s body beside yours, and the heat of the rifle, though she hasn’t pulled the trigger yet. 

She takes her time, adjusting her grip and the way she’s standing, legs slightly spread, then the doe stiffens, though it’s looking the other way, not at you.

Through the ear muffs you think you hear something else, a- You adjust them. You could have sworn you heard a human voice. 

“Wait,” you mouth at her, but she doesn’t notice, lining up her shot. 

You almost rip your muffs off, then remember you don’t want to be half-deaf at fifty, like Otis. You move to grab her shoulder instead, saying, a little louder, “Wait-,”

The shot goes off, and she whirls on you, irate. “What the hell was that?” she snaps, tearing off her muffs. “What are you-,”

There’s a piercing scream and muffled shouts.

The doe is bounding away into the brush, seemingly unharmed. 

Maggie runs forward, while you start to run for the horses, then find yourself jogging after her, though this seems like the worst idea- whoever you hit isn’t likely to be happy to see you, and what if they have guns too?

They do. There’s two men with guns, and a kid a few years older than Clementine, clutching a shoulder wet with blood. He’s on the ground in what must be his father’s arms, half conscious and moaning. The other man trains his gun on you and Maggie, immediately, with a professional sort of motion that makes you think, military or cop. 

So do the barked orders. Who are you. Where are you from. Who fired the shot. At some point, you grip Maggie’s free hand in yours, tightly, even as she says, “I did. It was me. Don’t hurt us. It was an accident. We can get help. We have horses.”

Then a forced march back across the field, after the hysterical father has tied off his son’s bleeding shoulder with his belt. The boy is white as paper. 

“Maggie, you take him,” you say. “You’re the faster rider.”

The father resists, stiff and silent, for a moment, then lets her drape the boy- Carl- he keeps saying, it’s all he can say, he’s Carl, he’s eleven- over the saddle in front of her. 

“Rick, take the other horse,” the bigger man who’s done all the talking snaps. “I’ll walk her back.”

“No,” says Maggie, sharply, “I’m not leaving her alone with you-,”

“Then give her the fucking rifle, and go,” he snaps. 

“It’ll be fine,” you say, because that’s all you can say, you can’t run and you can’t not let the other man take Wes. You take the rifle from her, and try to look calm and confident with it in your grip as she gallops off with Carl, the man called Rick hot on her heels. He knows how to ride, much better than you, you can tell, as you watch them vanish into the foliage. 

That leaves you with the man with all the questions and the barking. He’s big, and he’s obviously furious, and he’s not quite looking at you, like if he lets himself stare at you head-on, he won’t be able to stop himself from shooting you in the face, or wringing your neck. 

And you are alone. You consider screaming for help, but you also think Shawn and Otis must have heard that shot and all the yelling, they can’t be too far away, and they’ll be here soon. You listen hopefully for the telltale sound of the ATVs.

“What’s your name,” the man finally says. You put him at about thirty five. His thick neck is slick with sweat, and his shirt is clinging to his broad chest. He looks like an action hero from a war movie. You expect you look like a hillbilly, which you do, in jeans cuffed up because they’re too long on you, and an old fleece jacket full of patches, and your stringy ponytail pulled through your faded baseball cap.

“Sandra,” you say. “I’m really sorry. I swear to God we didn’t know you were over there. We were tracking that doe all morning. I swear. I thought I heard someone, and I was warning her, and-,”

“Well,” he says, “she got him in the shoulder. Hopefully it went clean through. Don’t have time to look for the bullet now. Let’s move.”

It’s not a suggestion. You are careful to keep pace with him, not walking ahead or falling behind. What if he shoots you in the back of the head, or thinks you’re trying to run on him? It’s obvious you are a hostage in all but name to Maggie taking Carl and his father, Rick, safely back to the farm. 

“Is he your nephew?” you ask, as you proceed down the trail. The woods are as peaceful as they were mere minutes ago. “The boy?”

“Might as well be. His dad and I go way back.” He seems to realize he never told you his name. “I’m Shane.”

You plod along, the rifle slick and heavy in your grip. 

“How many people with you?” Shane asks curtly.

You see no point in lying. It’s all fucked up anyways. The first time you and Maggie venture out alone, and you accidentally shoot a kid and bring back his very angry dad and uncle. Hershel is going to toss you out on your ass if you all live through this. 

“I’m staying with Maggie’s family,” you say. “Her dad and brother and sister. And their friends.”

“How many friends?”

“Two. Otis and Patricia. They’re good people,” you add. “We- we’re all good people.” You don’t know why you’re telling him this; if he’s not, it’s not like he’ll care whether you are. 

“Yeah, I bet,” he says, slapping a fly on his neck with a forceful smack. “You and that Maggie girl friends from school or something?”

“I helped her brother Shawn out and he brought me and- brought me back here,” you correct yourself, but it’s too late.

“You and who else?” Definitely a cop. Almost bored in his no-nonsense interrogation. 

“Clementine. She’s a little kid. I’m- I was babysitting her.”

“Your families dead?”

You refuse to answer that one, but he doesn’t take offense to your silence there. 

“So eight of you,” he says. “Five of you dumbass kids.”

You realize he’s including you in that description, but say nothing. Better ‘dumbass kid’ than ‘dead kid’. You also wonder if he’s thinking about how easy it might just be to line you all up and shoot you after Hershel helps their kid. 

“How… how many people are in your group?” you ask, sincerely hoping it’s just him and the other man, Rick, and the little boy. 

“As many,” he says, “And every one of us knows how to shoot.”

You hope he’s bluffing, just trying to intimidate you. It’s working pretty well. You trudge along for another few minutes, keeping your head down as if to signal that you trust him not to kill you, and thus, force him to meet that trust, but you both freeze when you hear the distant revs of the ATV. 

“Who is it,” he snaps at you.

“Otis and Shawn,” you say. “They know how to shoot, too.” 

For a moment you think he’s about to grab you, but instead he moves in front of you, gun raised, as Shawn’s ATV comes roaring up onto the trail. He’s panicked and panting; when he glimpses you behind the stranger with the gun, you can see fear and regret leap across his face. 

“Let her go,” he says, which annoys you; you think Shane is more likely to hurt him than you. Shawn is not a short, baby-faced girl in baggy clothes, clutching a rifle she clearly doesn’t know much what to do with. Shawn is a man in his mid twenties in decent shape, reaching for his gun. 

“Stop it!” you shout. “Shawn, stop! Maggie hit their kid, we were trying to get the deer-,”

He understands immediately, to your relief, and his expression crumples further. 

Shane, to his credit, has kept a cool head through this, and didn’t shoot Shawn on sight. “You have another guy out here with you,” he says. “Otis? He on his way?”

Shawn doesn’t need to answer; you can hear Otis approaching. 

“You take me back, she can ride with him,” Shane says. “We shouldn’t have any problems so long as your people help Carl. Make up for your mistake.”

Shawn looks again at you, weighing his options. They aren’t good. “Alright,” he says. To you, “Sandra, it’ll be okay. Just wait here. Otis is coming.” 

Shane straddles the seat behind him, and they roar off. You wait there, trying not to cry again, hoping you didn’t just send your friend to his death.

Otis does arrive, red faced and hoarse, vocally relieved to see you unharmed. You try to explain exactly what happened to him during the ride back, but you don’t know if he can even hear what your saying until you’re back on the farm. It looks deceptively peaceful, but as you race up to the house it’s clear something is wrong. The front door is wide open and Shawn’s dog, Carter, is barking from his pen in the back. 

You run up the steps, Otis hot on your heels, only to see Shane arguing in terse voices with Shawn on the upstairs landing. There’s blood spotted across the stairs, and distant crying from the second floor. Shawn spots you and Otis, and brushes past Shane to take the stairs down to you two at a time. “He wants to go back and get the kid’s mother. Lori. He says the rest of his group are camped along the highway. They were looking for some girl who went missing when this happened.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, and then, “Is Maggie okay?”

“She’s in there helping Dad and the other guy, Rick, with the boy.”

“Is he going to live?” Otis’s eyes are darting around until he sees Patricia standing in the kitchen doorway, Beth and Clementine behind, looking frightened but safe enough. You and he both audibly relax.

“I don’t know,” Shawn says. “I hope so, if they stopped the bleeding in time.”

“You can’t stop him from going to get the others,” you tell Shawn, wrapping your arms around yourself. “If he wants to bring them back-,”

“He’s going to,” Otis finishes the thought for you, then says, “Better he go get them and tell them we don’t mean them any harm, then they come looking for us because three of their people are missing.”

Shawn looks surprised by this; Otis is a quiet sort of man who never really offers his opinion unless directly asked for it, which you suppose makes him a good match for Hershel’s stubborn confidence. But then he nods. “Okay. I’ll go with him.”

“No,” says Otis. “I’ll go. You stay here. I shouldn’t have taken you kids out in the first place, like your dad said. Something like this was bound to happen eventually.”

Shawn scowls. “I’m twenty four.”

“And I got hired on when you were about four,” Otis retorts. “Stay here and look after the girls.”

“The girls will be just fine,” Patricia says sourly, from the kitchen. “Get going, Otis.” But she comes over and hugs and kisses him before he leaves in the truck.

The rest of you hunker down in the kitchen, as if bracing for an invasion. Which you are. Not for the last time, you wish Lee had stayed behind. Clementine tries to radio him every other day or so, but so far, nothing. All that means is that he’s well out of range, and you haven’t heard any news of Macon, but while you wish Lee were here, as a sensible person who would probably know to deal with men like Shane and Rick and their possibly well-armed and infuriated group, you’re not sorry you stayed, all the same. 

In the kitchen Patricia gives you a glass of water and between small sips, as if it were sour milk on your guilty tongue, you stiltedly recount what happened. Patricia looks horrified, while Beth is silent and brooding, resting her chin on her arm as she stares out the dusty kitchen window into the back, where chickens are pecking at bugs and worms in the ground. Clementine says nothing, kicking her feet from the stool she’s sitting on, and Shawn repeatedly assures that it wasn’t your fault, it could have happened to anyone.

“If anything, Maggie’s the one who took the damn shot,” he says, shaking his head, though he softens when he sees your stricken look. “I know it wasn’t really her fault either. We shouldn’t have split up in the first place. What if they’d started shooting back?”

You hadn’t thought of that; your heart sinks. You’d have been dead before you even realized what had happened. And for what? A doe none of you even managed to catch. 

Patricia frowns. “Alright, enough talk about that. Beth, take Sandra and Clementine to find as many towels as you can, and sheets. They’ll need them upstairs. I’m going to heat up some water. Shawn…” she sighs. “Go keep watch outside. Someone ought to. And let Carter out of his pen. He’s been yapping all day.”

“I don’t want him to get run over,” Shawn says, but obeys. Carter doesn’t look at all like a farm dog should; he’s a scruffy, ratty little terrier mix, the last of the pack of dogs that once roamed this land like the Greene family’s border patrol. Shawn babies him, or so Maggie says, hesitant to let him roam around now that he’s pushing twelve years old, worried he’ll be hurt or killed by coyotes. Or… other things. 

“I hate this,” Beth says, as you rummage around in closets and wardrobe, dumping towels and sheets and rags into a laundry basket Clementine is dragging after you. “I told Shawn not to go out today. I hate hunting.”

You’re not surprised. Maggie says Beth had a brief vegetarian stint in middle school. 

“I don’t even like Venice,” says Clementine, helpfully.

“Venison,” you correct, and feeling defensive, say, “It’s not like we were doing it for fun. We have to get meat somehow, and the pigs-,” you break off. Beth loves those pigs, and you can only imagine the fight that is going to happen come fall, when Hershel or Shawn declare they’re big enough to slaughter. 

It’s not that you’re looking forward to this, but after two months you’ve seen enough chickens chopped up that you’re less squeamish about these things. It’s not that Beth’s so sensitive, it’s that she just loves most every animal, with a fervor you’ve never seen in any of her interactions with actual human beings. She has a graveyard out by the berry patches devoted to every pet she’s ever had, complete with wooden tombstones.

You never had pets growing up, except some fish for a few years when you were young. You can still remember the greenish hue of their tank light on your dad’s face as he peered down at them, pleased they liked their new plants. 

“I saw this movie,” Clementine says, as you carry the basket down the hall, “where they had to cut someone’s arm off after they got shot. It was during the Revolutionary War. If they have to cut that boy’s arm off, we could make him a new one, though. A robot one,” she demonstrates, flexing the muscle of her left arm. “There’s lot of stuff here we could use.”

Beth sighs. “He’s not going to need a new arm, Clem. My dad will fix it.” She sounds so casually faithful, as if she’s stating a fact. You wish you had that kind of confidence in anyone.

Maybe you did once, in your own dad, but it’s hard to remember what that was like. You worry you are already forgetting his voice, though it has only been a few months without him. Sometimes you charge your phone in the house, even though there’s never a signal, just to scroll through old photos and videos of him. Most of them are of him eating and telling you to stop being silly. 

You don’t remember what it was like to ‘be silly’. You mouth the Spanish along with him as he mutters to himself, trying to fix a clock he brought over from Puerto Rico when he first came here as a twenty six year old. He glances up from his work and scowls at you, but his dark eyes are crinkled and smiling. 

Clementine stays out in the hall, hopping from one foot to the other and craning her neck to get a look inside the small guest bedroom as you and Beth bring in the fresh towels and sheets. It reeks of blood and disinfectant and metal. Hershel is standing in a corner, drinking water, while Carl’s father is sitting beside the bed, stricken, his son’s small hand clasped in his own. Maggie is peering out the window. 

“They’re coming,” she says; you catch a glimpse of a cloud of dust on the road as an RV rumbles up the drive, followed by a beat-up station wagon. Maggie lets the sheer curtain drop back over the window. 

“I’ll bring your wife up to you,” she tells Rick, quietly, then hurries out. You glance towards the pale boy in the bed, who looks to be asleep, his shoulder wrapped tightly in gauze, and are followed out of the room by Hershel and Beth, who shuts the door behind them, leaving the man and his son momentarily alone. 

“Is he going to be okay?” Clementine asks immediately.

“Yes,” says Hershel. He never couches his language much around children, you’ve realized. “The bullet passed clean through, and didn’t hit any major arteries in his shoulder, or shatter a bone. He’s extremely lucky. I’ve stitched him up and given him a strong sedative; he needs to rest and drink a lot of fluids, but he didn’t need a blood transfusion. It looked much worse than it was, and he’s a healthy little boy.”

“Thank God,” says Beth, and you feel some of the weight lift off your shoulders. 

“I’ve told his father as much,” says Hershel, “and now I’ll be telling his mother the same, fortunately.” He gives you a hard, but not harsh look. “We’re going to have a discussion about where we go from here when some of this fuss has died down.”

“What about the strangers?” Beth lowers her voice; you can hear loud, panicked voices on the porch.

“They’ll stay until he’s recovered,” Hershel says. “We’ll give it a week to make sure there’s no infection. Then they can move on.”

Then they will move on, he thinks. You think about Shane’s questions, and are less sure.

You step aside as if rebuked as Hershel goes downstairs, leaving you with Beth and Clementine on the landing. Beth glances down at the crowd spilling into the house; a woman is frantically demanding to see her son- it must be Carl’s mother- and several other voices are blending together into a low buzz of alarmed conversation. 

“Come on,” says Beth, and instead of going down the stairwell, she leads you and Clementine back down the hall, to what was once, when this old farmhouse was first built in the 1800s, something like the servant’s stairwell, a narrow, claustrophobic set of stairs that let you out in the small pantry behind the kitchen. From there, you go out of the back door and across the back porch, where Beth all but throws herself down on the creaking porch swing. Windchimes tinkle in the breeze. The baskets full of blueberries are still sitting out on the shaded steps. 

Clementine takes a handful and drops a few into your hands. You sit down on the steps and watch blue smear across her lips and mouth, too tired to tell her to wipe her face. What does it matter? You stay out there for the next two hours, watching the afternoon lengthen towards evening. You should be hungry, since you haven’t eaten anything but breakfast this morning and some blueberries, but you don’t notice if you are until Patricia comes out with some peanut butter sandwiches. 

You eat yours sitting in the swing beside Beth, who seems both anxious and subdued, her knees tucked up under her chin. She barely touches hers, while Clementine eats all of hers save for the crusts. “I wish they had a white bread,” she says. 

“This is healthier for you,” you say, not tasting any of it. 

As the sun sets, Clementine dozes off on the swing beside you, her warm head lolling on your shoulder. You’ve taken off your jacket but you’re still wearing a long-sleeved shirt, and have gone from feeling suffocated by the heat to oddly cold as night approaches. 

Maggie comes out then, shutting the screen door quietly behind her so as not to wake Clementine.

“What are they like?” Beth whispers. “The people?”

Maggie shrugs. “Two of them are still out looking for a little girl from their group. She wandered off yesterday while they were hiding from a big group of walkers up on the highway.”

“Walkers?” you frown.

She grimaces. “That’s what they call them. Or geeks. The ones who came are all camped out by the corn crib. Patricia fed them.” She pauses. “They don’t seem dangerous. Except for maybe that Shane.” Her mouth folds into a painful, pursed line when she looks at you. “I’m sorry I left you like that with him. The whole way back all I could think about was if something happened-,”

To your shock, she sounds like she might cry. “I’m fine,” you say. “He was… intense, but he didn’t hurt me or anything.” You find yourself yawning, as if to illustrate your point. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Good idea,” Maggie picks a leaf out of her hair in dismay. “Come on, Beth, let’s put Clem to bed.” 

As you stand up, grimacing, she catches you by the arm, and leans in to say, “Next time you get the gun.” Her lips tremble like she’s about to cry or laugh.

You smile thinly, and go back indoors. 

You have strange, restless dreams that night. Once again, you are hunting with Maggie deep in the humid woods, but you sense you are not tracking a deer but a person, following footprints rather than animal tracks. You’re not wearing the same muddy brown and green hued clothes, either, but the blood-splattered tee-shirt from the morning you helped save Shawn from Rob Murphy. You are barefoot, though, as are she. 

When you break into the clearing, she silently hands you the rifle. You lift it with practiced ease and look down the sights. Clementine stares back at you and then cries out, red blossoming across her chest. You wake disheveled and frightened in the early morning hours, and are surprised to see Beth up as well, listening at her bedroom door. You sit up, the air mattress groaning, and she winces and then abandons her eavesdropping. 

“One of their people is sick,” she tells you. 

You stiffen. “Bit?”

“No, he’s got a bad cut from the day before yesterday. They think it was on rusty metal. They tried giving him antibiotics they had with them, but they’re not working. He has a bad fever.”

You rub at your eyes. “Can your dad help him?”

“My dad says there’s a FEMA camp at the high school. Otis is going with that man Shane.”

By the time you’re dressed, there is a full fledged debate out in front of the house; a bunch of men strenuously arguing over who should take the risk of going to the high school, which is likely overrun. 

“Daryl and Andrea are still out searching for Sophia,” Rick is arguing, “look, Shane and I will go scout it out-,”

“We don’t have time to scout shit out,” Shane says. “T-Dog’s in bad shape, and there’s other supplies there we could use.” He seems almost eager to head out, but you’re not surprised. From what you’ve seen of the man, as much as he intimidates you, he seems like someone who hates to sit still. 

He reminds you of your dad in that sense. He always had to have a project of some kind. “In and out. Just like old times, RIck.”

“No,” says Otis, firmly. “Neither of you know this area. I’ve been to that school a thousand times. One of you comes with me.”

“You shouldn’t go,” Shawn is telling Rick. “Your kid’s still laid up, he and your wife need you. Look, Otis and I can go-,”

“Shawn, don’t be stupid,” Maggie chips in, scowling. You agree, not that you’re going to say as much. 

If Otis and he both go, that leaves the rest of you outnumbered compared to the newcomers, even if they don’t seem very frightening in the dawn light. There’s an old man in a fishing hat and a Bermuda shirt, a tearful woman with short-shorn grey hair, and an Asian boy around you and Maggie’s age with his arms folded across his chest, frowning pensively. 

“I’ve done this sort of thing tons of times,” he finally interjects, “and I’m the fastest. Me, Otis, and Shane can go- Otis can explain the layout to me, and Shane can back us up. We’ll be back in a few hours, tops.”

Rick opens his mouth again, then scowls and shuts it. “Fine, it’s your call, Glenn,” he says, though no one really seems to be looking for his approval. “I should go check on Carl and Lori.” He walks back inside, though he excuses himself politely as he brushes past you.

“We’ll take the truck,” Otis is telling Shane and the boy, Glenn. “Be ready in ten minutes, alright?”

“Let’s bring T-Dog up to the house, Carol,” the old man says to the grey-haired woman. 

“I can help you,” Maggie interjects, and walks off with them towards their makeshift camp on the other side of the green house and well, after casting a curious glance at Glenn, who doesn’t seem to notice as he rifles through his small backpack. 

You exchange a look with Beth, and head back indoors, where you find Clementine eating cereal in the kitchen, while Patricia lays out a sheet across the battered old sofa in the living room. “We’re going to be doing a lot of laundry this week,” she mutters, as you and Beth help her smooth it out. “I can already tell. Let me tell you something, girls- we are not their maid service. Don’t let them bring their dirty things up to the house and expect a full dry cleaning detail.”

Beth giggles a little at that, and you can’t help but crack a smile. 

“I should see if Otis needs anything,” Patricia says when you’re finished. She smiles briefly at the two of you, then hurries back outside. It feels like people have been running in and out of this house since yesterday, nonstop. 

You’re eating some apple slices that Beth is cutting up when they bring the injured man- T-Dog- into the house. He’s nearly as big as Shane, though his skin’s several shades darker and his head is bald. The bandage haphazardly wrapped around his left bicep doesn’t look good, and it doesn’t smell good, either. 

You hold out a bowl as the woman, Carol, unties it and dumps it in, grimacing. “We should clean it out again,” she says; she has a soft, tremulous way of speaking. You realize this must be the woman whose daughter is missing. 

“I have some painkillers left,” you say. “I don’t know how strong they are, but-,”

“Well,” snorts the old man. “Just don’t tell Daryl.”

“Dale,” Carol mutters under her breath. “He’s out looking for my girl.”

You have no idea who Daryl is and get the impression that this might be for the best. You go to root out some Tylenol all the same, hoping T-Dog, who seems in so much pain he can’t even speak much, is going to be able to keep them down. 

When you come back, Hershel is making him drink a lot of water, then take the pills, then has him lie down. “I want everyone out of the living room,” he says. “He needs to rest quietly until they come back.”

You realize then that you forgot to go out and say goodbye to Otis before he left, but you also need to go milk the Greenes’ two dairy cows, Nora and Fern, so you put on your boots and slip out the back door to avoid the strangers, again. 

After the milking, they need feeding, as do the chickens, pigs, and turkeys, and the cats, and when you’re finally done cleaning out the litter boxes with Beth and helping Maggie collect the eggs, it’s two hours later. The sun is all the way up now, and Shawn is weeding furiously in the sprawling vegetable garden, obviously annoyed he was made to stay back home. 

“It’s only a forty minute drive there and back,” he says. “How long could it take them?”

“The high school might be locked up,” says Maggie, leaning against the fence post. “Or there might be a ton of walkers milling around.”

“Don’t let Dad hear you call them that,” he warns, without looking up from his work. “Sandra, can you get the hose? The corn needs watering, and the zucchini. And Beth, your potatoes are suffocating in this bin.”

“They are not,” Beth says, outraged, and hops the fence to see for herself. 

“Help me weed,” Shawn snaps at Maggie, but she’s already backing off. 

“I promised Patricia I’d help her clean the kitchen.”

“If I went with them,” Shawn says, “they’d be back by now.”

You turn on the hose, feeling the warm spray against your palm for a moment, before aiming it at the corn, which is whispering to itself in the wind. It’s a greyer, muggier day than the one before. A noise from the road makes all three of you turn, you, Shawn, and Beth, but it’s not the truck but a motorbike, growling up the lane, a man and woman, neither wearing helmets on the back. There is a doe carcass slung across the back of the bite, what looks like an arrow or bolt in its neck.

“I guess that’s Daryl,” you say, watching Dale and Carol hurry over to greet them. 

“Great,” says Shawn. “Dad’s gonna have a cow.”

“They’ll be back soon,” says Beth, in that quietly assured way of hers. “Otis knows every backroad around here.”

Beth is right; a light rain is falling by the time you’ve made some decent headway on the weeds, making green streak down your freshly calloused palms, and you look up in relief to see the little red truck returning. 

Clementine comes running out from around the house, Carter on her heels, and Shawn stands up with a groan, brushing his hands off on his already stained jeans. “I hope they got the meds.”

They did, by the looks of the Red Cross duffel bag Glenn is hauling out of the cab, but only two men exit the truck; him and Shane. You squint, trying to find Otis; is he hurt, and lying down in the back? But he’s not there. Patricia comes the front steps, as Clementine pulls up short, asking a question. 

You see Shane shake his head, and Glenn look away. You can’t hear Patricia’s scream all that well from hear, but you don’t have to hear it to feel it cut through you, like a knife through butter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Notes:
> 
> 1\. I wrote myself out of the corner I got backed into, which is good, so right now I have 8/10 chapters of this story completed and just 2 left to write. So I'm posting the rest of this. 
> 
> 2\. I know nothing about guns, Sandra knows nothing about guns, and she sucks at using them, so we're a match made in heaven. This is not going to be a very action heavy story though there will be some violence against both humans and zombies.
> 
> 3\. Sandra's kind of a coward which is why I like her a lot; she is definitely more invested in keeping her head down and getting by than putting herself out there or fighting with others, even when she disagrees with them. I think it makes her more human than if she were just blindly charging into danger left and right (though she still does some of that).
> 
> 4\. I know it's about to get very confusing with a Carol, Carl, Shawn, and Shane all as main characters but just bear with me.
> 
> 5\. Oh yeah there's about a 2-month in story gap from the first 2 chapters and this one, from like March to June.


	4. Chapter 4

JUNE

The last funeral you attended was when you were sixteen, for some cousin of your father’s, the only other family of yours in the States. It was in Orlando, a six hour drive there and back. You stayed the night in a motel. 

You didn’t want to go to the funeral because you’d only met the man and his wife a few times, had no grief over his death, and you didn’t want to give up a summer Saturday. You sulked in the car for the first three hours of the ride, listening to your music and ignoring the audio book your dad was listening to, then slept for the next three. 

The motel was cheapy and grungy with a pink-and-green neon sign out front. People smoked cigarettes and drank beer in the parking lot and your dad shepherded you from car to room with his hand on your back as if worried you might dart away and vanish into the muggy night. 

On the boxy TV inside, there was some old 70s action movie he liked, and you laid on separate twin beds, watching it in weary silence, still in your funeral blacks. You did not even bother to take off your uncomfortable pointy-toed shoes. 

Clementine has never been to a funeral before, ever, and wears an old dark purple, almost plum colored sundress of Beth’s, for want of anything else. Beneath it, her ratty sparkly sneakers contrast so vividly with the dress that it’s almost funny. 

Beth’s blouses are always too baggy in the chest on you, and Maggie’s pants are always too long in the leg and tight in the butt on you, so you make do with a haphazard collection of both, feeling like a rejected store mannequin in ill-fitting, wrinkled clothes supposed to pass for formalwear. Patricia lends you a pair of old loafers. Beth cries silently while you all dress; Otis was her godfather, like an uncle to her, to all of them. 

You have uncles, but you don’t remember them. You know their names. Luis, Jose, Diego. Aunts, too. Gabriela, Ana, Maria, Sarah. Your grandparents, Francisco and Cristina. Of your mom’s side, you know next to nothing. Her name was Michelle. She had red-brown hair like you, but her skin was very white. She was from a city called Athens. Not the one in Greece. 

Where is she from now? You don’t know. A postcard here and there. Your dad hid them from you, but could not bring himself to destroy them, and every so often you would discover one in her unintelligible, rambling scrawl. 

Outside, the air is stiff and warm. There is no body to bury, only Shane’s hard, hoarse words of how Otis sacrificed himself to buy Shane and Glenn time to escape with the supplies. How heroic he was, in his last moments, how dignified unto death. 

Patricia is wracked with sobs, supported by Shawn, who stands there like a statue, eyes unseeing anything but the homemade wreath a small grave has been dug for, surrounded by mementos of Otis’ life; an old flannel shirt, knick-knacks and ornaments, buttons and stones and loose change, his leather wallet, a cross, moldering prayer cards. 

Hershel keeps no alcohol in the house, something you learned early on, and one night a month after you came to the farm, Shawn and Maggie and you slunk off to the shuttered up cottage that was Otis and Patricia’s to drink, passing around a heavy glass tumbler full of whiskey that burned like fire, scorching the tender interior of your throat. 

Now you envision dumping a fifth of it into the grave, wetting the cup with your lips before letting that crash down as well. In that cottage, there was a family bible, with names of all the children that might have been, as many as five of them. Matthew and Elizabeth and Brandon and Hannah and David, pray for us. The Greenes broker no belief in saints, but once you did. 

The shovel is passed around to scoop in dirt while Hershel reads aloud from the Scripture; which one, you’re not sure, you’re barely listening; Clementine’s eyes are red-rimmed and her nose is sniffly. Otis was always sweet to her, letting her ride the tractor with him or giving her chores to do that he’d knew she’d enjoy, like helping him check the beehives on the far side of the pasture, gloved up to the elbows and beekeeper’s hat hanging precariously from her head. 

It’s your first glance to really examine the newcomers as a whole, besides Lori, who is watching over Carl, now conscious but still weak and sunken-looking, and T-Dog, who is still laid up on the sofa on his second dose of antibiotics, fever gone but still exhausted and aching. 

There is Rick, who stands taut and rigid with tension, his gaze fixed on the mound before you, and you think if you stood any closer you might be able to hear his teeth grinding from stress. 

You don’t know what he looked like before Maggie shot Carl, but you wouldn’t be surprised if the shock and horror of it had aged him five years in an instant. He’s leaner and slighter than his friend Shane, but about as tall, and holds his hands loosely clenched as if looking for something to grab onto and possibly sink his straight white teeth into. He has sad puppy dog eyes, your friend Kayla-from-college would say. 

Dale looks appropriately grandfatherly, the fun grandpa to Hershel’s grim-faced preaching, and has traded in his Bermuda shirt for a more sober button down, which still hangs open to reveal the slightly sweaty and rumpled wifebeater underneath. 

He keeps his sunburnt hand on the elbow of the woman beside him; Andrea, a hard-edged, slender blonde who you cannot picture as having ever been anything but a lawyer, accountant, corporate secretary; something no-nonsense and ambitious and crisp. You wonder if she is, in fact, Dale’s daughter; she must be in her thirties, but they look nothing alike. 

Carol hovers beside them, biting her lip, eyes downcast. She gives off a constant, nervous, unsettling energy, though who can blame her, her kid missing, surrounded by strangers. Her pink nails are bitten down to the quick, and when she glances up as you hand her the shovel, her watery gaze is just as ragged and raw. It makes you uncomfortable, so you look away as soon as possible. You hope they find her daughter soon.. 

Then there is Daryl, who is leaning against the nearest tree, present but not actually involved. His face shadowed by the boughs overhead. He looks like a meth head, if you are being completely honest, though meth heads probably have less muscle on them. 

This morning you saw him picking under his fingernails with a hunting knife. No attempt has been made to look put-together; bug bites riddle his arms and die quick and bloody deaths. He catches you looking and does not quite glare, but you get the message and turn away.

Glenn stands beside Maggie, on the other side of you, his hands in his pockets. He is fresh-faced and dewy-skinned and somehow his glossy hair doesn’t seem to contain the same amount of grease and wear as everyone else’s. 

Maggie’s eyes dart to him every few moments; she’s not smiling, how can she smile, she loved Otis like family, but there is something oddly hopeful in the way her eyes constantly return to his unlined, open face, creased as it is in sadness and guilt. 

You assume he blames himself for this, thinks he should have insisted on going alone, or just with Shane; both were in much better shape than Otis, younger and hardier. 

Maggie keeps looking at him, and your stomach twists. You ignore it. She’s just curious, as are you. 

Shane himself stands straight and erect, like a soldier at attention, his hands behind his back or in fists at his sides. His newly shaved head glistens in the June sunshine. His face is an unreadable mask; there is no peeling that off to see what lies behind it. 

It feels strange to look at him here, at a funeral, a civil event, when the first time you met him he had a gun trained on you. You know your grudge is probably unfair; wouldn’t you have reacted the same, had they shot Maggie? But you can’t help it. First impressions leave a mark. 

After what remains of Otis is buried, Shawn walks Patricia back into the house, while the rest of you mill about as maps are slid across an old work table.

“Alright,” says Rick, or drawls, clearing his throat as if he has entire speeches lodged up there. “Alright! Listen up. Shane and I have talked with Hershel-,” Hershel nods minutely, as if reluctant to admit so much-, “and we’ve decided the most productive way to look for Sophia will be to divide ourselves into groups and go out for an hour or two at a time. No more than that, and we’ll never leave the farm unguarded while we’re out.”

Daryl is going out first, alone. It’s not clear if this is by design or by Daryl’s own insistence. In another hour, Rick and Shawn will search the neighboring farmlands. Then Shane and Andrea will pick up where they left off. Finally, you, Glenn, and Maggie will check the outskirts of town, on the off chance that Sophia managed to wander that far alone. 

A description is given. A tall, skinny, blonde ten year old girl in a pale blue tanktop and ragged white shorts, canvas shoes. You think it is most likely that she is already dead, or was picked up by another group; she doesn’t know this area and had no supplies on her that she could live off for these past few days. Or it is possible that she injured herself and has been hiding out somewhere, hoping help happens by. 

Beth raises no complaint about being left out of the search parties on account of being too young, but Clementine does, giving you hell all morning as you work through your chores, having changed out of your funeral clothes and into something more suitable, a faded old red hoodie of Maggie’s over a bleach-stained camisole and jeans tucked into your boots. 

“I’m small,” she argues, as you mop the floor where one of the cats knocked over an old can of paint. “I can sneak into places you guys couldn’t. And I’m fast. Watch.” She races up and down the narrow walkway, leaping over the spill and turning back, proudly. 

“You’re eight,” you say. “It’s not safe for you to go out with us.”

“You’re only twenty! That’s not even old enough to drink beer,” she points out sagely.

“We’re not going out to drink beer, we’re looking for Sophia.” You frown, and can’t help it; “And I’ll be twenty one in three weeks.”

“Maybe she’s scared of adults,” Clementine says. “Maybe she’d come out from wherever she’s hiding if she heard another kid.”

“She’s not scared of Glenn,” you retort. “And he’s coming with us. But nice try.”

“But I can help!”

“You can help by staying here and cheering up Carl.”

“The sick boy?” she wrinkles her nose at the thought of sitting by his bed. 

“He’s not really sick, he’s getting better. And he’s probably really bored and lonely with no to talk to but his mom. I bet he misses Sophia,” you add. “The way you probably miss Duck, right?”

Clementine considers this, then sighs. “Fine. Does that mean I don’t have to do school today?”

“Don’t ask me. Beth’s in charge of that.” It’s nice to be able to pawn these sort of things off on someone else. You hate trying to teach times tables and simple division, but Beth uses things like beads and berries and chalkboards. She’d make a great teacher, someday. If there’s ever real school again. 

After Shawn returns from his search with Rick, he wants to talk to you and Maggie, privately, and the most private place to do that is in the chicken coop, surrounded by squawking hens and crowing roosters. “Listen,” says Shawn. “I was out with Rick for a good hour. Seems decent enough. He saved my ass from this walker caught in a window frame.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to call them walkers,” says Maggie archly, and then, “And seems like someone’s always saving your ass, Shawn.”

“At least I didn’t shoot a kid!”

Maggie looks stung, but before she can get properly upset over it, Shawn is still talking. 

“It’s the other two I’m worried about. Shane and that Glenn kid. You don’t think it’s a little suspicious that of the three we send out, their two guys come back with only a few scrapes, and Otis gets killed?”

You feel hot and a little dizzy, though that might just be the smell of birdshit. “You think they killed him?”

“Now I see who got Daddy’s paranoia,” Maggie scoffs. “Don’t be stupid, Shawn. Why would they want to hurt Otis?”

“I’m not saying it was on purpose,” Shawn snaps, “only that they have every reason to lie, don’t they? S’not like they’d ever admit otherwise. And why, I don’t know, Maggie, maybe because that narrows down the people here who could put up a fight to just me?”

“You think they want the farm for themselves?” you ask incredulously, while Maggie barks, “Excuse me? Put up a fight? You are so full of crap-,”

“Why not?” he continues. “They have kids. They clearly don’t want to be on the road all summer. Why would they? Now they’re starting to get a lay of the land, looking for this little girl…” he trails off, then says, “Look. I’m not saying they’re these psychopaths lying in wait. I’m just saying, people are opportunistic. And I want both of you to watch your backs out there today. You’re lucky Dad even agreed to let you go out again.”

“First of all,” Maggie says, “Dad has no say if Sandra decides to help them search or not, he’s not her father-,”

“If he didn’t want me to, I wouldn’t,” you say, quickly. “I- I owe your dad everything, me and Clem both do.”

“Knock it off,” Shawn says to Maggie. “Sandra, don’t worry about it. We know you, now. Everyone trusts you. But these people- we don’t know where they’re from, and we don’t know what they’ve been through. I just don’t want us to get the rug pulled out from under us. Dad wants them out by next week.”

“How?” Maggie says. “How is he going to make them leave if they don’t want to go, Shawn? If they can’t find this kid?”

“I don’t know,” Shawn admits. “But just do me a favor and take this with you guys, okay?”

He presses something into your hand.

“Bear spray?” Maggie snorts. “Yeah, that’ll work on walkers.”

“It’s not for the walkers, Maggie,” you say, reluctantly pocketing it. 

The three of you ride out in interminable, awkward silence. You on Wes, Maggie on Major, and Glenn on Skye. For the first little while there is only the sounds of the horses and the crickets in the brush and the distant barking of a dog, until Glenn broaches the quiet by asking how you wound up with the Greenes. 

You give him the abbreviated version, not that the unabbreviated version is all that complex, and there is a strange light in his dark eyes when you’re done. “I know that guy,” he says immediately. “Lee. I met him. In Macon. That’s where I was living after I graduated, before I drove back up to Atlanta and met Shane’s people.”

Maggie and you exchange a stunned look. 

“Are you serious?” you blurt out, unable to keep the apprehension from your voice. “Really?

“Yeah,” Glenn is all but glowing from this unexpected connection. “No, really, I met him! I was hiding out with this group stuck in a pharmacy; this reporter lady and her camera guy, and this old racist bastard and his daughter- kind of a bitch herself, again, you know, no offense or anything, but- then these other people turn up, and I swear, your guy Lee was with them!”

“How was Macon?” you ask. “Lee was looking for his family, and the others, they wanted to get down to Savannah.”

“Macon was bad,” Glenn admits. “The suburbs, not so much, just abandoned, but the downtown was a shit-show. If he… if he was looking for his family, he never mentioned it to me.”

You swallow, and nod. They must be gone, then. Fled or dead. “How were they when you left them?”

“We had a close call getting out of that pharmacy, and they were hiding out at this motel when I left,” says Glenn. “I helped them clear the place out of walkers, then took one of the cars. It seemed like they were planning on spending the summer there, at least, picking the city clean.”

You exhale, breathing in the smell of horse and the powder you put on Wes’ back to keep the horseflies off. “At least they were okay when you left them.”

“Lee seemed like a good man,” says Maggie. “And pretty smart, too. They’ll pull through.”

Glenn pauses like he wants to say more, then lets it go. “I hope so,” he says. “I really do.” 

All the same, he doesn’t seem very regretful at having left Macon. And you aren’t very regretful at having passed the chance to go there. At least on the farm, there’s space to breathe and stretch your legs, even if the work is hard and the days sometimes very long. A motel right now sounds like hell. Or purgatory. 

You can see the temptation Glenn’s group would have to stay here. Is it any different from yours? You can tell yourself it was selfless concern for Clementine, but that’s a lie. You were terrified for yourself, too. You didn’t want the uncertainty on being on your own again. You would have done just about anything to be accepted, to stay. Should you be ashamed? Your dad would say that’s just survival, plain and simple. Does that excuse what they might do, to stay? 

“We’ll start with the pharmacy,” Maggie says quietly, as you enter the outskirts of town. “We can check the other buildings on this street; there’s a post office and a thrift store, but let’s not push it. There’s only three of us.” No rifles for either of you; Glenn has a handgun, Maggie has the bat, and you have a hammer tucked into your belt loop. Rick keeps going on about gunfire attracting even more of them, so the plan is to stay quiet and not get cornered in the first place.

But this drag seems deserted, as does the pharmacy; the front windows are already broken. Glenn clambers over the broken glass, then helps Maggie through, and then each of them takes your hands and helps you hop down. 

You feel like you’re on a playground or something; the three of you share uncertain grins, then fan out, checking every inch of the small pharmacy for any nasty surprises. It’s completely deserted; the floor is littered with trash and more broken glass, and dirt and leaves blown in by the wind. 

Maggie regards the empty checkout almost sadly. “I knew the people who ran this place,” she says. “They used to give lollipops to all the kids who came in, for free.”

Glenn is more pragmatic, already heading down the aisles. “We can still scavenge stuff, even if Sophia’s not here. I don’t think she would have been able to climb through the window without hurting herself, anyways, and there’s no fresh blood on the floor.” There are some rusty stains on the linoleum tile.

The three of you spread out to examine what’s left on the shelves; not much. You find a few boxes of bandaids and some mouthwash; Maggie finds toothpaste and toothbrushes, which is good, because you’re just about out of the former. You find a pack of pens and some notebook paper, as well as a flashlight, but no batteries for it. 

Glenn has hopped the counter to try to look at what’s behind it; when you approach to see what if he’s looking at, he turns too quickly, startled, and drops it; it goes skittering across the counter. He snatches it back up, but not before you see. Your eyes go wide, but you don’t say anything; Glenn shoots you a nervous, sheepish smile, and crams it in his backpack. 

“Find anything?” Maggie calls over to you. 

“Not really,” you say, on impulse; Glenn is visibly relieved, and mouths his thanks as you turn away. 

You don’t know why he needs a pregnancy test, and you don’t know why you’re lying to Maggie, but it’s too late now. Hopefully it’s nothing. Did someone ask him to get them one? You think of the women in his group; Carol, Andrea, and Lori. It could be any one of them; you have no idea what their deal is. And it’s really none of your business. 

Maggie nudges you on your way out; you turn, alarmed, wondering if she did see and is angry with you, but she has a nervous sort of sly smile on her face as she shows you the long strip of condoms folded up and tucked into her pocket. 

“Want some?” she mutters, as you leave, like a kid offering another kid gum in class.

“Wh-what?” you stammer, dismayed. You know what she wants condoms for. Your heart sinks, even as you try to ignore the pressure seeping away. Again, it’s none of your business. It just feels like it should be. 

You can’t get into the post office, and the thrift shop is similarly deserted of walkers or Sophia, though you do find some stray hats and gloves that seem like they might prove useful in the fall, and a silly heart-patterned scarf that Clementine might like. 

Glenn makes Maggie laugh by trying on three different pairs of sunglasses, while you summon up a fake smile and wish you were anywhere else.

The ride back is quiet, save for the looks Glenn and Maggie keep tossing one another, above their horses’ occasionally tossing heads. You stroke Wes’ mane as you ride, and keep your head down so the late afternoon sunlight doesn’t blind you. 

“What’s wrong?” Maggie asks you later, as you brush down your horses in their stalls, across from one another. Glenn has vanished after Maggie dismissed his incompetence at taking Skye’s saddle off, to either sulk or present his secret sender with their pregnancy test. 

“Nothing,” you lie. “I’m just tired, and hot. And I don’t know if we’re ever going to find that girl.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, and her voice creaks over to you, full of rasp. “I miss Otis already. It’s barely been a day.”

“I miss him too,” you tell Wes’ fine dark eyes, as you pat his velvety nose.

The other searches were just as unsuccessful, except for Daryl, who found Sophia’s doll in a creekbed. Carol seems thrilled with this, taking it for a sign that Sophia might be close by, while Daryl slinks off like a kicked dog that just got a rare pat on the head, but everyone else seems unconvinced. 

Exhausted from a full day of riding or walking, your groups separate; the newcomers retreat to their camp, while you and the Greenes stick to the house. No one wants Patricia to have to cook today, so it’s on you and the other women to make dinner, since Hershel and Shawn are apparently incapable. 

Clementine is finishing up some math problems by a lantern light as you and Maggie cook rice and beans over the stove. You’re supposed to conserve generator power as much as possible, so the lights in the house are almost never used unless it’s an emergency. 

T-Dog has recovered enough to leave the living room sofa, so the only strangers are Carl, still bed-bound, and his mother, who you’ve only seen leave his side to use the bathroom. “Carl’s nice,” says Clementine, chewing on her pencil eraser. “So’s his mom, I guess, only she doesn’t say much. And she and his dad are fighting.”

“Keep your voice down,” Beth warns her, “And that one’s wrong,” she taps a problem, but Maggie looks intrigued. 

“About what?”

Clementine shrugs elaborately. “I don’t know. They just seem mad.”

“They’re probably just stressed,” you say. “Their son got hurt and they’re around people they don’t know.”

Or, you think, is something else adding to that stress? Could Lori be pregnant? You have no way of confirming this; you’ve barely even spoken to her, and you don’t even know that anyone is, in fact, pregnant in the first place. You stir the pot of rice again. “This needs draining, it’s too watery.”

As you do so, Shawn troops in from the back porch. 

“You smell,” says Maggie, wrinkling her nose. “Go shower.”

“Thanks,” he says, sarcastically, but stops to sniff at what you’re cooking. “Smells good, Sandra.” He brushes behind you, a hand momentarily on your shoulder.

Maggie rolls her eyes after he’s gone. “Subtle.”

“What?” you ask, confused, as Beth hisses, “Maggie.”, shaking her head. 

“Done,” Clementine says, slamming her workbook shut before Beth can check it. “Can we eat now?”

Dinner is a quiet affair after the customary prayer. You sit between Maggie and Shawn, your hands linked together, heads bowed. Maggie’s hands are smoother but Shawn’s are warmer. Shawn squeezes your hand briefly as you let go, and you offer a wan smile in return as you start to eat. 

Patricia barely touches her food, heaping her rice onto Clementine’s plate, and excusing herself halfway through the meal to bring up food to Carl and Lori.

Hershel lets her go without comment, then says, “They’ll keep searching tomorrow, but I need you three back here. We have work to do, and now they have a sense for the area.”

“Sounds good,” says Shawn, though there’s something off about his tone. You just nod. Maggie is silent, frowning down at her food. 

“I don’t expect them to stay on our property much longer,” Hershel continues. “Either they’ll find Sophia, or they won’t, and they’ll have to move on. I’ve already spoken to Rick about it.”

“Is he in charge of them all?” Maggie asks, wiping her mouth with a napkin and taking a sip of water. “Or is Shane?”

There’s a long silence. 

“Rick is nice,” Clementine says. “He helped me and Beth bring in a big bucket of water from the well.”

Beth nods in agreement, still chewing.

“Regardless,” Hershel says firmly, “I trust we can all handle this civilly.”

“And if we can’t?” Shawn presses. 

There’s no real answer to that beyond the scraping of forks and spoons on plates. 

After dinner, you get ready as bed for usual, putting on an old pair of pyjamas and cramming your feet into a borrowed pair of slippers, after trying your best to comb through Clementine’s hair and put it in a messy bun. You’re not very good at it and you wish you could look up how to take care of hair as curly a hers. The Greene sisters aren’t much help. You hover in the dark hallway, listening to the rest of the house quieting down, then turn at the creak of a door. 

Lori is holding her and Carl’s dirty dishes, balanced in her arms, clearly intending to bring them down to the dishing. She’s a slim, pretty woman with high cheekbones and dark brown hair, but there are deep, bruising shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep, and she looks to be verging on gaunt. 

You exchange uneasy smiles and wave awkwardly as she heads downstairs, then give into temptation and peek in on Carl. He’s asleep, his bangs falling across his eyes; he has the same hair as his mother. 

You return to Beth’s room, where she sits up in bed reading, as she does almost every night. Beth loves to read and will read just about anything, from children’s books to murder mystery novels to home decorating magazines to comicbooks. You even found some harlequin romances tucked under her bed once.

But though you are usually out as soon as you head meets the pillow, tonight you lie awake, restless, long after Beth has set down her book and wished you a quiet goodnight. 

You hear floorboards creak in the hall, then someone slipping downstairs. Beth is fast asleep in bed, but you’d recognize Maggie’s footsteps anywhere, after two months. Carefully, quietly, you ease off of the air mattress, then all but skulk over to Beth’s bedroom door, which is still open a crack. 

Cautiously, you slip out into the darkened hall; you’re used to retiring early these days, so you doubt it’s even eleven o’clock at night yet, but it feels much later. 

It seems like Maggie’s already left the house, because she’s not in the living room or the kitchen, and you know you should just go right back up to bed. This is her home, she can do as she pleases, but- you see the distant flicker of a flashlight in the distance, heading towards the barns and sheds. 

This is a bad idea. What is she doing? Is she sneaking out with Glenn? The thought stabs at you; you grab the baseball bat resting by the back door, just in case, and step out into the cool June night yourself. 

The flashlight is flickering towards the old vehicle barn. You feel a jolt of panic. That’s the one with the walkers in it. What the hell is she doing? You quicken your pace, resisting the urge to call out, and flinching when an owl hoots nearby. 

You’re almost too afraid of whatever is going on with the people here, to be afraid of the possibility of running into a walker in the middle of the night. There’s been a few close calls along the fenceline, but you’ve never actually seen one make it any further than that before Otis or Shawn picked it off or managed to herd it away. 

You round the side of the barn, your free hand clenched into the fabric of your pants, almost losing a slipper in the slick, dewy grass, and then all but jump out of your skin as you collide with something solid. You try to scream and shove it away, but a hand lands heavy and warm on your mouth, and you stagger and almost fall to the ground until you realize it’s Shawn. 

He pries his hand from your mouth but is holding onto you by the forearm, so you can’t just rush off. 

“What are you doing out here?” he demands in a hushed voice.

“I- I thought you were Maggie,” you say shakily, “I thought I heard her sneak out-,”

“Why the hell would Maggie sneak out of the house?” he retorts, then seems to put two and two together. “With Glenn?”

“I don’t know,” you babble, “I just- I thought it was her, not you, so I-,” Your mind catches up with your mouth. “Shawn, what are you doing out here?”

“Nothing,” he says, curtly. “Just going for a walk. Clear my head.” He’s about as bad of a liar as the rest of his family; in the shadows it is even easier to pick out the similarities between him and Maggie; the same dark hair, the same square shaped jawline, the same nose. 

“Why are you here?” you press, gesturing frantically to the barn. 

He lets go of you. “Go back to bed.”

“No,” you say, surprising yourself. For the past two months you’ve been docile as a lamb, obedient, amiable, never a moment’s trouble. You haven’t questioned, pushed back, or confronted, ever, because it wasn’t your place. But this is different. It just is. “Tell me what is going on, Shawn. I’m serious.”

He looks away, then relents. “Follow me.” He leads you to the ladder leading to the barn’s upper level, where he or Patricia goes every morning with a chicken or any fresh meat. 

You feel a sinking pit at the bottom of your stomach, unsure now. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he says, as he starts to climb. “But you need to see something.”

After a moment’s hesitation, you follow, climbing slowly after him. You’re winded by the time you reach the top, not from the exertion but from the stress. He reaches his hand back to you and guides you into the dark loft, full of old boxes and crates and a few errant hay bales, then flicks his flashlight back on. 

The walkers ambling beneath you don’t really seem to notice the light skimming over them, but a few seem to smell you on the night air, and turn towards you. 

You lean back instinctively. Is he trying to bait them? “What are you doing?”

“Look,” he says. He flicks the flashlight’s beam twice, like a laser pointer, on the face he wants to point out. The face is young and thin, atop a neck coated with blood and gore, as if savaged by a wild animal. Her hair is lank and dishwater blonde, some ripped from her shiny scalp. The pale eyes are completely crusted over. She’s wearing a pale tanktop stained with blood and dirt, as are her white shorts. Her bird-like pale legs wobble in her shoes. 

“Sophia,” you whisper, feeling bile under your tongue. 

You look back at Shawn. His face is one of dull acceptance and horror. 

“You brought her here?”

“No,” he says. “Otis brought her in. Around dawn, morning before yesterday. She must have wandered out from the woods. He didn’t know, I mean… how could he know? We didn’t know,” he repeats it, a little firmer, before his voice cracks. “But she’s here now. She’s been here since they got here.”

“Shawn,” you say. “When they find out…” you can’t finish that thought aloud.

“We have to get rid of them,” he says, his flashlight beam once more flickering over the walkers rustling beneath you. “All of them.”

“How?” you whisper. “We can’t. We have to tell Carol. We have to tell your dad, and he has to tell her and the others the truth. So they don’t think we’ve been lying to them all this time.”

“They might not believe us either way,” he retorts furiously. “If we can… I can put on a bunch of layers, and go down there with-,”

“With what?” you rasp. “A flamethrower? There’s no way to do this in secret. We just have to tell them.”

There’s the distant sound of a door opening and closing. You both tense up before hurrying back out, all but scrambling down the ladder after closing and locking the door behind you. But there’s no one nearby; it must have been someone going in and out of the RV, the sound carried over by the wind. 

You breathe in deeply now that you’re back on the ground, and turn back to Shawn, who is running a shaking hand over his close cropped brown hair. “Sandra,” he says. “Don’t say anything. You can’t.”

“We can’t just let them go out searching every day for someone who’s already dead!”

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “It’s awful. I know. But… until we figure out how to handle this, don’t tell anyone. Please.”

“Who else knows?” you demand.

“Just you and me,” he says. “And… Otis would have, if he’d found out who they were looking for.”

“Maybe he did,” you say, feeling tears well up. “Maybe… I don’t know, maybe while he was out with Shane and Glenn, maybe he said something, or they said something, and he realized that he… that he’d found Sophia already, and he told them, and they-,”

Shawn looks as though he wants to retch. “That’s why you can’t say anything, he says. “Please. We’ll… I’ll figure something out, find a time to tell my dad without being interrupted or overheard. And he… he’ll know what to do. How to tell them.”

“Shawn, he thinks they’re still alive,” you say, wiping at your eyes. “The walkers. He thinks they’re sick, I- you know he’s wrong.” You think all of you have always known it, but it’s gotten unsaid, like so many other things. That, at least, you’ve been used to all your life. 

“He thinks there could be a cure, someday,” Shawn says with a small scowl. “He has hope, okay? Is that such a bad thing?”

You exhale again, in and out. A cure for what? Seeing them like that, so starkly illuminated by the light… a cure for what? There is nothing human left in them. 

“Let’s… let’s just go back to the house now. I won’t say anything. But you have to tell them soon.” Or I will, you think, though you’d never dare say it. Is Carol lying awake right now, gripped with fear and worry for her daughter? Or asleep, dreaming of her? What about everyone who’s risked their lives looking for her? Including you.

“I will,” Shawn says. “We will. It’ll be alright.” But the smile he gives you is nowhere close to confident. For a moment you think he’s going to embrace you, out of sheer desperate despair, but then he just shakes his head, flicks his flashlight off, and leads you back to the house, a long, silent trek in the dark.


	5. Chapter 5

JUNE

On the morning of the third day after you found Sophia, a white Cherokee rose is blooming in an old vase in the kitchen. You stare at its satin white petals as you eat your eggs; Patricia catches you looking at it curiously and gives a faint, sad smile. Otis’ death seems to have aged her a decade; you could swear there is more grey in her hair than there was before. 

“Daryl brought that back for Carol, the poor woman,” she says. “She didn’t have anything to put it in, so she asked me to keep it in here. He’s pure redneck, that one, but I suppose he’s got a soft side underneath all that grime.” 

Your eggs curdle in your stomach, and you stand up with your plate in hand. “I better get going. Maggie and I have work to do.” 

“Beth says I can collect eggs this morning,” Clementine pipes up; she is helping Patricia wash and dry the dishes in the sink. “So don’t touch them, okay!” 

“And after that, you and her can help me clean out the guest bedroom,” Patricia squeezes her shoulder. 

“Carl’s healed up already?” you ask, frowning, as you dump your plate in the sink.

Patricia shrugs. “Well enough to be back on his feet again. Hershel warned them not to let him play too rough.”

If Carl’s recovered enough to be out of bed, Hershel will want the highway group on their way soon, you think, as you trudge over to the barn. But they won’t leave until they can find Sophia, and Carol and Daryl are convinced she must be nearby. 

And she is. They just don’t know how close. You stop walking, dry heaving, but luckily your eggs stay down. You don’t need anyone to see you vomiting and decide you must be sick, on top of everything else. 

It’s been over two days now. As far as you know, Shawn still hasn’t told or confronted Hershel about Sophia, and you’re afraid he never will, that he’s just hoping they’ll pack up and leave of their own accord, that Rick or Shane or both of them will decree the search over and leave the girl for dead. And she is. Dead. 

But Hershel thinks she- they all- could be cured, someday. By what? With who? Even if there are still some secret, guarded government labs out there, you doubt they’re going to be going door to door if they develop some kind of vaccine, and that wouldn’t help everyone who’s already… dead. 

You’ve felt sick to your stomach for two days straight now, barely able to eat or sleep, and last night you had a panic attack for the better part of an hour, imagining what might happen when they find out the truth. Because they will, unless they leave immediately, and neither Hershel nor Shawn can make that happen. 

You’re outnumbered and even if you’re not outgunned, you’re willing to bet that if it came down to that, they would win. None of you here are fighters, even if Shawn thinks he is. He’s gentle. The Greenes are gentle people. So are you and Clementine, or at least, you want to be. You’ve been safe enough here, even content, almost, for the past two months, and now it’s all gone to shit, because you and Maggie messed up and because Hershel is delusional. 

You milk Nora and Fern with Maggie in tired silence, and once you’re done, you help her sling down bales from the hayloft to feed the cows and horses, all baying for their breakfast. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Maggie says, “I’m… tired of waiting around for something good to happen.”

You glance over at her as you dump hay into the troughs; it clumps across your thick leather gloves. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean,” Maggie is chewing on her lower lip, a habit she shares with her younger sister. “I… you know, Glenn.”

“Yeah,” you say, dully.

“I just… it’s been pretty lonely, being stuck here,” Maggie says. “You probably feel it too, right?”

You shrug a little, keeping your face away from her. “I guess.”

“Well, I mean to do something about that,” Maggie declares, sounding just like Shawn for an instant. “You’ll cover for me, right? Swear to God I’ll pay you back, Sandra, I mean it. I… hey, if you and Shawn- I know I make fun, but really, if you want to-,”

“What?” you blurt out incredulously, whirling on her. Skye nickers in dismay.

Maggie looks surprised by your surprise. “Come on, you must know how he’s been looking at you for weeks now.”

“Shawn doesn’t feel that way about me,” you say firmly, almost coldly, as if you can rule it so, like you’re the empress of affection, reciprocated or otherwise. “I… he doesn’t.”

Maggie’s brow furrows, but she doesn’t argue with you. “Okay, I just- whatever. It’s not a big deal either way, right? Just like how me and Glenn isn’t a big deal.” She sounds like she’s trying to reassure herself. “It’s normal to want… to want some, you know-,”

“I know,” you snap. You do know, just not in the way she thinks. Your stomach hurts, a sharp, piercing pain, and you suddenly want to hit something, or throw something. “Just do what you’re gonna do, and leave me out of it.”

Maggie doesn’t say anything after that; you can tell she’s hurt and shocked by your sudden irritation with her. And why shouldn’t she be? You haven’t let yourself get angry over anything, until now. You’ve been too worried about keeping yourself on her family’s good side. Well, it’s a little late for that now, and they’ve got way bigger problems than the likes of you.

The campers continue searching; Daryl rides out again, as do Shane and Andrea. Glenn stays back, and you’re furiously unsurprised when he and Maggie are both absent after lunch, but you try not to think about it. Shawn seems just as stressed as you, but spends all day checking the fence lines with Rick and T-Dog, making sure there are no loose points. 

Later in the afternoon, as you wash your hands vigorously after an hour of weeding and pulling up vegetables, Beth traipses into the kitchen, looking nervous. As you dry your hands on a rag, she ventures, “Sandra? Can I talk to you? Upstairs?”

What now, you think, numbly. Has she found out about Sophia, too? Did Shawn tell her? Or does she suspect about Maggie and Glenn? 

You follow her into her bedroom; outside, you can hear children talking; now that Carl is back on his feet, Clementine seems to be following him around, thrilled with the prospect of a friend. 

“When we were cleaning the guest bedroom I found this,” Beth pulls open her nightstand drawer. 

You stare down at the cheap plastic pregnancy test; two red lines. Positive. 

Beth closes the drawer again, as if it were a scorpion hissing up at both of you. Her face is bright pink, her pale eyebrows scrunched together. 

“Where was it?” you ask. 

“At the bottom of the waste basket behind the door,” she says. “I thought maybe… I don’t know. You didn’t put it there, did you?”

“Me?” you ask in disgust. 

She blanches immediately at your tone. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean- I was just wondering-,”

“No, I’m not pregnant,” you snap, and feel your eyes wetting. You blink, hard.

“I know you snuck out with my brother the other night,” Beth says, defensively. “I was only wondering-,”

“There is nothing going on between me and Shawn,” you say, thickly. “I- I followed him out because I thought he was Maggie, sneaking out to meet Glenn!” 

Beth’s green eyes go wide as saucers. “I knew she liked him! Daddy’s gonna kill her.”

Not literally, you hope. “Don’t tell anyone,” you say, though you don’t know why you’re even covering for them. “But- look, that’s not from me, and it’s not from Maggie, so-,” Well, who was spending a lot of time in that room? “It must be Lori’s.”

“Carl’s mom?” Her eyes widen.

“She’s not even that old, Beth. It probably is from her. I saw Glenn grab it when we were checking out the pharmacy the other day. She must have asked him to get one for her.” It makes sense now that you think about. It must be Lori. No wonder she seems so stressed. First almost losing her son, now this. 

The two of you are quiet for a moment; Clementine and Carl’s voices have faded away; they’re playing some kind of game that involves tossing a ball back and forth without letting it ever touch the ground. 

“If she is pregnant,” Beth says, “my dad won’t kick them out. He wouldn’t do that to a pregnant woman.”

You are less convinced of this. “He might say it’s none of our concern, Beth.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” she insists. 

You don’t have the energy to argue with her; you break off the conversation as you hear voices on the stairs. “Girls!” Patricia is calling for you. 

Lori and Carol have stopped by and want to cook dinner for you, the farmers, as a way of offering up their thanks. You don’t know how willing Patricia will be to cede over her kitchen to them, but she suggests she can make a small cake for the desert on the firepit oven out back, while they do something with chicken and rice inside. It’s not as though there’s a very wide menu to choose from. 

Feeling like you can’t be around Lori or Carol right now, knowing what you know, you offer to gather berries for the cake, leaving Beth to deal with them. 

Shawn finds you surrounded by brambles in the patch, swearing to yourself under your breath when branches snag on the flannel shirt you’re wearing for protection from the thorns and sun. 

“I think that used to be my shirt before it was Maggie’s, you know,” he comments with a small smile. 

You try not to grimace. It smells like Maggie now, like horse and denim and deodorant. You wonder what she smells like right now, what Glenn smells like, and push the thought away before you feel sick all over again. 

Shawn sighs. “I’m going to talk to Dad soon, I promise.”

“You said that three days ago,” you can’t help but point out, as you pluck more ripe blueberries. 

“I know,” he says, “I just- it’s been a lot, this past week.”

“Well, you’re not the only one who has to deal with it,” you snap. 

He looks as taken aback by your brief display of temper as Maggie did; their surprise is nearly identical. 

“Tomorrow,” Shawn says. “Tomorrow I will, I promise. He wants my help fixing the turkey pen netting tomorrow, I’ll talk to him then.”

You don’t say anything, and after a moment he nods and walks away, his head down. 

Food-wise, dinner is a success. The chicken isn’t burned and the rice isn’t hard. Patricia’s cake is quickly devoured, even though there’s only enough for everyone to have one very thin slice. Other than that, it’s the most painful meal you’ve ever sat through. 

Lori and Carol make stilted conversation with Patricia, while Rick tries to engage Hershel, who chews and swallows mechanically and gives a serious of shorter and shorter responses, obviously taking this as a ploy to win him over, which it is. 

Dale speaks kindly to Beth and Clementine, telling them jokes and old stories, while you sit in between Shawn, who is suspiciously silent, and Daryl, who eats like a wild dog. You’re forced to watch the series of coy glances and secretive smiles that pass between Maggie and Glenn, though they’re not nearly as subtle as they think; Hershel looks over with narrowed eyes at least once as Maggie laughs, and Beth keeps looking at you, then at them. 

T-Dog is very complimentary of the food, and is the only one who asks you about where you and Clementine are from; it turns out he went to the same college as you, and for a few minutes you forget the tension in the air as he jokes about the shitty dorms and the lackluster food; “Do they still serve that bacon that tastes like dried out leather? What about the pulpy orange juice?”

“What did you major in?” you ask, curiously; he says he played football, which isn’t surprising given his build.

T-Dog (whose real name is Theodore, which prompted Clementine to ask if he ever got called Teddy Bear, which made him grin and say she’d be the first), looks around as if to check if anyone is listening, then leans in. “Speech communications,” he says, almost slyly. “I worked in HR. Don’t tell anyone. They’ll make me start sorting their shit out for them.”

You would have laughed at that, but you’re distracted by Shane and Andrea at the end of the table, who are murmuring back and forth, heads bent together, as if they’re in another space entirely. Every so often, though, Shane’s eyes dart up to land on Rick, and Lori, and Carl sitting between them, wolfing down his dinner, his wound barely visible aside from the bandaging poking out from under his shirt. 

After the meal, Patricia insists that the others should go to bed, and you, her, Maggie and Beth are left to handle the dirty dishes. You can hear the plucking of a guitar on the porch; Hershel is playing for Clementine, some old lullaby. Beth must have inherited his voice; they’re the musical ones of the family, as Shawn will tell you. He and Maggie ‘can’t sing for shit’. You can’t sing for shit either, but your dad could, and he knew all these old Spanish songs you never bothered to decipher for yourself. You miss him. He would know what to do. 

As Patricia steps out with the scraps for the pigs, and Beth sorts the silverware, you watch as Maggie slips a piece of paper from her pocket to study it, a smile playing on her lips. Then it vanishes; she looks horrified, and glances up, sees you staring at her, and rushes out the back door. You don’t think; you follow, leaving Beth to ask in outrage, “Are you serious?” as you both abandon her.

“Maggie!” You catch up to her quickly; she’s not quite running, but setting a fast pace for the vehicle barn. 

“Go back inside,” she says, “Sandra, go back in, I- Glenn, he’s-,”

“He went over there?” you demand, as you point to the barn.

She nods, looking sick to her stomach. “We were trying to make plans during dinner, I-,”

“Are you stupid or something?” you burst out, outraged. “You told him to meet you here?”

“I didn’t tell him, he decided on his own, oh, fuck-,”

She darts ahead, and you follow her, wanting to curse and scream but unable to draw any attention. 

The loft door is unlatched and open; he must have climbed the ladder. As Maggie swears again and starts to scramble up it, Glenn’s head pokes out into the twilight; he looks terrified. “Move, move!” he gasps in panic, and Maggie and you back away as he climbs down the ladder halfway, then all but leaps to the ground, landing on his feet with a grunt. 

Maggie grabs his arm, but he shakes her off. “What the hell is that?” Glenn demands hoarsely, looking from one of you to the other. “You’ve got- like a dozen walkers in there!”

“Glenn, you can’t tell anyone,” Maggie says, “it’s not a big deal, they’re sick-,”

“They’re dead, Maggie!”

You cut in; the cat’s out of the bag now. “Hershel has had Otis and Shawn trapping them since this started. We feed them every morning with meat. Animal meat,” you add quickly, at the look on his face.

“This is insane,” Glenn says, enunciating carefully. “This is crazy, this is- just, Jesus Christ, Maggie!”

Maggie looks on the verge of tears, glancing between the two of you. “My stepmom’s in there! My- Beth’s boyfriend, our friends- those are people we know! People we loved!”

Well, not all of them. It’s on the tip of your tongue. Just tell Glenn now. Let this run its course. The longer you wait, the worse it will be. He can’t have seen Sophia, or he would have said something. But the words won’t come. Maggie’s voice grows thicker and thicker; she’s all but sniffling. 

“I know you don’t understand-,”

“I don’t understand?” Glenn snaps. “You think I haven’t lost people?” He nods at Sandra. “That she hasn’t? They are dead, Maggie! They were sick, then they died, now they’re just… bodies. There’s nothing left, no mind, no soul- your dad needs to put them to rest. What if they get out? What happens then?”

“They won’t get out, that’s why we keep them locked up-,”

“Until what? Until they rot into puddles?” he challenges. “If you don’t want to do it, my group can, we’re used to this by now-,”

Fury flashes across Maggie’s face; for an instant you think she’s going to haul off and him him, but then she snaps, “Your group? Your group that got Otis killed?”

Glenn’s face shutters with guilt; it speaks for itself. You feel like you’ve been walloped in the gut, and he looks it.

“What happened to him?” you say, as Maggie seethes with regret and anger. Glenn looks ready to bolt, or break down into tears himself. “Is- Is Shane telling the truth?”

Glenn pauses, then admits, “I didn’t see what happened. Otis hurt his leg while we were breaking into the school. Not bad, but it was slowing him down.” 

He exhales. “Slowing us down. Shane thought we were fucked. But I found the supplies, and when I got back with them, Shane was shouting at me to run, and shooting these walkers, and they were- he said Otis had drawn them out to buy us time, and I didn’t- I just ran, like he told me. With the bag.”

You feel a leaden weight pressing down on your chest, making your breath shallow and short. Maggie looks faint for an instant, then sits down on the grass, her head in her hands. When Glenn crouches down beside her, she pushes him away. 

“You stay away from me,” she snaps. “Stay away from all of us, Glenn Rhee. You and your people. And don’t you- don’t you dare tell them about this barn. It’s none of their business! This is our land, our home, and if we- if we want to- to have hope, instead of- of just killing people when they get in the way-,” she breaks down, sobbing. 

“I don’t know, Maggie,” Glenn is saying desperately. “I’m sorry. I talked to Rick about it, but I don’t- I don’t know what happened, I couldn’t just- Shane’s saved my life before, he’s not a bad person-,”

“No, he’s a fucking murderer!”

“We don’t know that!”

You keep trying to speak, but nothing comes out, the weight is so crushing. When you can, you rasp, “Glenn, go back to your camp. And don’t tell anyone. Not right now. Just go.” 

Distraught, he nods, and leaves with one last heartbroken look back at Maggie. You sit down next to her in the dirt, your backs against the barn wall, still warm from the heat of the day. You can’t think of anything else to say, and you can’t tell her about Sophia when she’s like this, so instead you just take her hand. 

After a few moments, she embraces you, all but wraps herself around your, her warm hair in your mouth. You start to cry yourself then, your tears landing on her hair and trickling down her scalp, and that makes her give a shaky chuckle, before she sobs all over again. 

The first stars are appearing when you’ve both calmed down enough to speak. 

“Glenn’s not a bad person,” you say. It’s true, which is why you say it. You don’t think he was lying, when he told you about Otis and Shane, and you could see the regret and fear in his eyes. In his shoes, you probably would have done the same thing. “I think he was telling the truth. Maybe… maybe Shane did hurt Otis, but Glenn didn’t have any part in it.”

“I know,” Maggie confesses, shakily. “I know he… he would never do something like that, he’s a good guy. I just… Otis was like family. He was family. And if Shane…” Her tone hardens, firms up a little. “If Shane left him for dead, or killed him himself, I want him to pay for it.”

“We have to be careful,” you squeeze her hand. “If he’s really dangerous, we can’t just accuse him of something like that. We have to be smart about this.” You blink, wiping at your eyes. “And I have to tell you something else. About their group.” 

Maggie sits up, extricating herself from you, though she’s still gripping your hand tightly like an anchor. “What?”

“The girl they’re looking for,” you jerk your head up at the barn. “She’s in there.”

Maggie stares at you in shock for a moment, then almost crumples again, though she manages to compose herself. “Shit,” she says, when she can speak again. 

“Yeah,” you say. “We’re lucky Glenn didn’t see. Shawn figured it out, and I caught him checking to see if it was her. It is.”

Maggie hangs her head for a moment, her short hair falling askew across her eyes, before she brushes it out of the way. “My dad has to tell them,” she says. “I… Carol has a right to know. That’s her daughter. She should be able to… to decide.”

Decide what, you think. Sophia isn’t on life support, in a coma. She is dead and rotting and has been for days. She probably died alone and terrified, and now she’s gone and her husk is just shambling around. That could have been you and Clementine, if Lee hadn’t spurred you to action, hadn’t led you to safety. 

Maggie pushes herself up from the ground with a groan, helping you up as well. “Dad has to tell them. What does Shawn say?”

“Shawn says he’s gonna tell your dad tomorrow… if he doesn’t know already.”

“My dad wouldn’t lie like that.”

“He might not see it that way.”

“Well, he wouldn’t lie,” she snaps, then regrets it, from the look in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Sandra. This… I’m sorry everything’s going to shit.”

You just sigh. “It’s not too late to fix it. Once they know and she’s… she’s at rest, they might want to leave. They might not want to be anywhere near here anymore.”

Maggie gives no reply to that; you can tell she doesn’t believe you. You’re not sure you believe yourself, either.

The next day is deceptively bright and cheery. Daryl goes out on his motorbike to search, yet again, as do Andrea and Shane. Maggie confides in you that Glenn swears they’re fucking, rather than expending much energy on searching for Carol’s daughter. 

Rick and T-Dog declare they’re going to hold firearm training. Hershel watches disapprovingly from a distance as they line up empty bottles and cans along the fence posts, and Lori, Carol, Dale, Glenn, and even Carl line up. 

Clementine sulks after you forbid her from joining them; the last you thing you need to worry about is her playing with guns. She almost poked her eye out running around with a stick the other day, and once accidentally hit Otis in the back with a broomhandle. He didn’t shout, or scare her, just scolded, then made her laugh by showing her how to properly flip a coin and catch it on the back of your hand. 

Shawn and Hershel head over to fix the turkey pen, and hopefully discuss the walkers in the barn. You run through your usual chores, then help Beth corral Clementine for her schoolwork. You’re reading The Chronicles of Narnia with her; she’s a pretty good reader for her age, even when she stumbles over ‘Pevensie’ constantly. 

Maggie comes in for lunch worried but trying to hide it; Glenn has gone off somewhere on a borrowed bike. Rick says he didn’t check in with him first, and Lori got flustered when she asked her. 

“Maybe he wanted to check out the pharmacy again?” Beth suggests, after she swallows another bite of her salad. 

You suddenly have an idea of what he might be looking for. What Lori might be looking for. Your sandwich tastes funny now, but you swallow anyways, knowing Maggie can read your expressions like a book. “I’ll give these to the pigs,” you say, grabbing empty plates, and ignoring the curious stare she turns up at you, as you walk out with the scraps. 

In reality, you dump them in Carter’s food bowl; he’s off playing with Carl, you can hear him racing around and yipping here and there. 

“You’re not telling me something,” Maggie says, as you turn back to her. She has to squint at you because the sun is in her eyes; it lightens her brown hair with threads of dirty blonde. 

“Glenn went into town to look for some medicine for Lori,” you say. “At least, that’s what I think he’s doing.”

Maggie frowns. “Lori’s sick?”

“She’s pregnant,” you mutter.

Maggie is silent for an instant, then demands, “What- was he looking for stuff for her last time, too?”

“He got her a pregnancy test,” you admit.

“You didn’t tell me!”

“It’s not our business.”

She scowls, just like her father and brother. “He shouldn’t have gone in alone. What if he’s in trouble?”

You adjust your ponytail, feeling oddly calm, oddly relieved to have confided in her once again, that you no longer have to bear the weight of it alone. “Then let’s go after him. It’s not a far ride.”

Maggie looks at you, stunned, for a moment, then nods. 

“No, it’s not.”

The ride is easier than you remember it being the last time. What was only a few days ago now feels like weeks. Patricia watches you ride out with pursed lips, and you know you’re probably in for an earful when you return, but once you reach the open road Maggie puts her heels in and presses Major to a canter, and you mimic her on Wes. You’ve never ridden this fast before outside of a field. 

It’s thrilling, and exhilarating, for a little while, and you forget about everything but the sunshine on your face and the greenery rippling on either side of you as you race ahead, neck to neck with Maggie, who glances over at you and smiles with all her teeth. 

The pharmacy seems as abandoned as it was when you left it, but as you rein up you hear noises from inside. Maggie jumps down from the saddle, peering into the gloom, and then her eyes go wide. “Glenn!”

You hurriedly dismount, relieved when you don’t catch your foot in the stirrup, and stare past her. Glenn has managed to barricade himself in the back of the store behind a few shelves pushed together. The three walkers cornering him can’t reach him, only grope at him through the shelves, but there’s nowhere for him to run unless he tries to climb the shelves without getting grabbed. 

“OVER HERE!” Maggie shouts, drawing the walkers’ attention; three heads turn towards you; two men in their twenties and one teenage girl. 

You breathing quickens as they begin to stumble towards the two of you instead; behind you, Wes nickers in concern. 

Maggie adjusts her grip on her wooden baseball bat. “Get back in the saddle,” she says, “But don’t move until I say so.”

You clamber back atop Wes; as the walkers move away, Glenn wriggles out from behind the shelves, shaken but unhurt. He pulls his gun from his waistband; he must not have had much room to aim and shoot wedged behind the shelves, nevermind the noise drawing more, but doesn’t fire, watching warily as you and Maggie lure the walkers from the storefront. 

“Now,” she says; they have to clamber over the broken glass to get back out onto the sidewalk. 

She turns Major around, pushes him into a trot, ignoring how he tries to balk when he sees the walkers struggling before him, and hits the staggering girl with the bat as she rides by, then wheels right back around. The crowbar you brought is slippery in your sweaty palms, but that seems to disappear when you see one of the men stumble and fall forward onto the sidewalk as the other collapses against him, and then you swing hard as you face by. 

The crowbar sinks into his skull and stays there, ripped out of your hands; Maggie gets in two more furious swings of the bat from the saddle, and then both walkers are still, bleeding out across the cracked pavement. Glenn approaches from behind, gun still raised, and kicks at both bodies to make sure they’re truly dead, before scrambling out out of the pharmacy. He has some nicks from broken glass and scrapes on his hands, but the rest of him appears unhurt. 

“Thank God you’re alright,” Maggie says hoarsely, offering him her arm. “Come on. Let’s get back before more show up.”

“What?” he says dryly, as he swings up into the saddle behind her. “Don’t want to catch them for your dad?”

You slow the pace down once you’re within sight of the farm, and stop on the side of the road to talk in relative privacy. You feel uncomfortably like a third wheel, even though it was your idea to go after Glenn, and you hate the anger you feel looking at him holding onto Maggie, though it fades when he admits that yes, Lori sent him into town for pills.

“All I could find was this,” he leans over and hands you a box of Plan B; you show it to Maggie, and realizes after a moment that she’s not sure what it is based off the name alone. 

“It’s morning after pills,” you explain. “For when a condom breaks.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Well, it’s a little late for that!”

“It might work,” Glenn shrugs, “if she takes enough of them.”

“Or it could make her really sick and fuck up her insides,” you say, curtly. “Or kill her. Internal bleeding.” You scan the list of side effects with a grimace. “This is useless. You shouldn’t even give it to her.”

“I’m not going back empty handed,” he says defensively. “I risked my ass in there-,”

“I told you they treat you like walker bait,” Maggie snaps. “Whenever something dangerous needs to be done, what, suddenly no one else can lift a finger? Why couldn’t Rick go get this shit? He’s her damn husband!”

“Rick doesn’t know,” Glenn says.

“Why wouldn’t she tell him?” You wonder if his group is composed of compulsive liars, and if it makes you a hypocrite for thinking that, given the people you live with, who are hiding one of their dead kids in a barn. 

“Because it’s probably not his,” Glenn says, bluntly. 

Maggie’s eyebrows shoot up towards her scalp. “She’s cheating on him? With who?”

“You don’t get it,” Glenn sighs, casts a look up and down the deserted road, then pats the side of Major’s flank as if to calm himself down. “Rick wasn’t always with us. When I met the group, Shane was in charge, and it was him taking care of Lori and Carl. They said Rick was dead, that he was in the hospital when everything went to hell, that he had been shot and in a coma. He was a cop.”

“State trooper,” Maggie corrects. 

Glenn rolls his eyes. “Anyways, for the next few weeks, that was the deal. Then one day we’re out on a scouting run in the city, and we bring a new guy back with us who’s looking for his family. It’s Rick. But before then, I mean, for two months, Lori thought he was dead. We all did.”

Maybe your dad is another Rick. Maybe he flew back early only to get stuck at some layover. Maybe he’s closer than you think, only states away, rather than oceans. You know it’s not true, but it’s a nice feeling, to pretend that he could be so close to you, that he is just around the corner, coming home. 

“My dad waited two years to marry after my mom died,” Maggie scoffs. “Not two months.”

“Well, Shane didn’t put a ring on it,” Glenn says sarcastically. “They were just fooling around. Then Rick comes back, so I guess they broke it off. I don’t know if he knows. I think he does. He and Lori…,” he exhales. 

“It shouldn’t even matter. It’s their marriage. But Lori was with Shane, and Shane was in charge, and now Rick is in charge, or they can’t even decide who’s in charge, most days. And they sure as fuck can’t be in charge together.”

“Maybe neither of them should be,” Maggie says boldly. “Maybe you should be, or that guy Daryl-,”

“Me?” Glenn scoffs. “Or Daryl? I’m some babyfaced Asian kid to them, and Daryl doesn’t even like people. He called me China Boy until two weeks ago!”

“Okay,” you say, because it’s very hot out, and you feel as though your head is starting to swim again. “Okay. So Lori is pregnant. And Rick and Shane are fighting. And-,”

“And Sophia is still missing,” Glenn’s tone sobers again. “I don’t think we’re going to find her. We’ve combed these woods for a week now. Daryl found her doll, I know, but… we can’t just keep going in circles. Shane and Rick were arguing about it yesterday. Shane wants to move on.”

That surprises both you and Maggie. “To where?”

“Fort Benning.”

“No way,” Maggie says immediately. “No, it’ll be gone, just like the cities-,”

“Well, we don’t know until we get there.”

But that’s good, then, is all you can think. They don’t want to stay, they want to go. “What about Rick?” you ask.

Glenn hesitates. “He wants to stay. He thinks we could hold this place down, together, if Hershel can be convinced.”

Maggie turns round in the saddle to scrutinize him. “And if he can’t?”

Before he can say anything, there’s the sound of a car approaching. All of you tense, before you recognize the station wagon, which rumbles past. Shane is driving; his hard gaze sweeps over all three of you as he passes, and then speeds up as he turns down the dirt road leading up to the house. 

“Did you see what they had in the back?” Glenn asks, after a moment.

“No,” you say, “I was looking at them.”

“Guns,” says Maggie. “A shit ton of guns. Come on. We’ve been out here too long.”

You don’t think Shane and Andrea were really out looking for Sophia after all. That’s why they needed to take a car. They were looking for a weapons stash. 

You keep a brisk pace back to the farm, but that quickens when you hear shouts in the distance.

Clementine, you think; you shouldn’t have gone without telling her, you’ve gotten lazy, reliant on others to look after her, trusting too much in chance. But you see her, her hand in Patricia’s, as a crowd gathers. 

Shane is standing in front of the barn, rifle in hand. Without so much as a word, he shoots the padlock off. 

Herschel shouts out and steps forward, but Shawn grabs him by the shoulder; both of them are unarmed, compared to the others; Andrea is standing by, ready to fire, and Daryl has warily drawn the crossbow he wears on him at all times. 

Rick is saying something to Shane, furious, and Lori is pleading with both of them, just as the doors swing open. 

Drawn by the shouts and shots, the first of the walkers stagger out. Shane and Andrea both immediately open fire, and after a moment, the rest of their group follows suit, or at least everyone with guns do. 

Lori has backed away from the chaos, holding Carl by the shoulder, and turns helplessly to the Greenes as you, Maggie, and Glenn run over, panting.

“Oh shit,” Glenn is chanting under his breath, over and over again, “oh shit, oh shit-,”

“Dad!”

Maggie runs to her father, embracing him, as Beth falls to her knees with a hoarse sob, staring at her mother’s body lying face down in the dirt. 

You stand there shakily, speechless, until Clementine runs to you, grabbing onto your arm. 

“Sandra, where did you go? How did they get in there?” she asks, and then is suddenly quiet, staring, as the gunfire dies down. 

Everyone is quiet, in fact. 

Sophia can’t walk anymore, but she can still crawl. Carol is hunched down on the ground, her head in her hands, screaming. Dale sinks down to his knees to comfort her, while Andrea lowers her gun, weeping, though she is the nearest to Sophia. Even Shane appears stunned; however he found out about the walkers, he can’t have known she was in there. 

You feel a strange sensation of relief, which makes you sound psychotic. But it is relief. No more hiding. No more lying. There she is. You look over at Hershel, who has a hand over his mouth, eyes screwed shut in grief. He still will not look at what is right in front of him. You’re unsurprised. 

A single shot rings out. Sophia is motionless, a dark pool seeping into the yellowed grass around her pale, shining head. Glenn lowers his gun, as all eyes turn to him, and walks away, shoulders trembling violently. 

You wrap both arms around Clementine, holding her close, so she cannot see any of this, and woodenly walk her back towards the house, ignoring her questions, as the shouting and cries start up again.


	6. Chapter 6

JUNE 2012

The house is silent when you wake; Beth’s bed is empty, and Maggie and Shawn aren’t in their rooms, either. Patricia has left out food for you and Clementine in the kitchen, but she’s gone as well. Your heart is in your throat as you step out onto the back porch, only to see a distant group huddled in Beth’s pet cemetery. They’re burying Annette. You stand there for a moment in the grey dawn light, looking at them, watching Shawn clamber out of the grave, shovel in hand, then go back inside. 

Clementine is picking at her cereal. She’s been quiet and sullen since yesterday, though you can’t really blame her. You know she’s upset with you for leaving- again- without telling her to go after Glenn, and she’s upset she can’t play with Carl like she usually does, because the campers are on the other side of a field burning and burying the rest of the dead, including Sophia. Your throat tightens, and you cough and splutter on your sip of water. 

Clementine turns dark, baleful eyes on you.

“I’m sorry, okay?” It comes out more whiney and defensive than you meant it; you sound like a teenager arguing with a parent. “I know- I know things have been weird, and I’m sorry I haven’t been around as much.”

Clementine says nothing, turning back to her breakfast. 

“Hey,” you say. “Hey. Listen to me. Listen! I’m going- I’m not going to do that again. Leave you here like that. I’m sorry.”

“First you went out hunting and Carl got shot,” Clementine says, in the high, strident voice of an eight and a half year old intent on proving a point. “Then they came here and everyone started fighting all the time. Then Otis left and didn’t come back. Then everyone started leaving, all the time, to look for Sophia, only she’s dead!” 

Her spoon clatters down into her bowl. “She’s dead, and she was here! In the barn! I hate this! And- and then you went away again, with Maggie and Glenn- twice! And you didn’t even tell me! An-and you barely even look for me! You’re supposed to be my babysitter! It’s not fair! We couldn’t look for my mom and dad, but you went out to look for Sophia! And for Glenn!”

“Sophia wasn’t in Savannah,” you snap, tears in your eyes. “You’re just a little kid, you don’t understand- I told you, they’re gone! Your parents are gone! I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it! My dad’s gone too! You think I don’t miss him? I didn’t ask for this! I’m not your fucking mom!”

“I do understand!” Clementine pushes herself out of her seat, furiously. “I understand more than you think! I know Carl’s mom is going to have a baby! I heard her and his dad talking about it! And I know Shane might be a bad man who killed Otis! Shawn was telling Hershel! And I know you probably wish you’d never even met me!”

She runs out of the kitchen and back upstairs, her bare feet pounding against the creaking wooden steps. 

You sit there at the counter, numb. If you are being honest, part of you does wish it hadn’t happened like this. You wish you’d been somewhere with a car, you wish you’d been with friends from college - Kayla, who had those crazy survivalist uncles, or Nick, whose family had a house up in the mountains, or even Courtney, who could make everyone laugh and forget what they were worried about, and who baked the best cookies. You don’t like feeling responsible for someone else’s life. 

You care about the Greenes, but you don’t feel responsible for them. Beth is the only one who’s a kid, and she has siblings and a father to look out for her. Clementine is different. Her parents left her with you. But she’s not your family. You didn’t raise her before this. You have any memories of her any younger than this, except a scattered recollection or two of seeing her a toddler at a work barbeque for your dad’s company. 

Are you supposed to love her like a little sister? What does that even feel like? You’ve never had a sister, or a brother. You don’t want her to get hurt, and you’d be distraught if something happened to her, but is that the same as love, or just guilt? You didn’t ask for any of this. You agreed to take care of her for a week. It’s been almost three months. And even though you don’t have to watch her every moment of the day anymore, she is still chiefly your responsibility, as kind as the Greenes have been. 

You finish your breakfast and wash the dirty dishes, then head out to start your chores. You want no part of the burning or the burying. It’s easy to lose yourself in the monotony of the work, almost comforting to do it alone, in silence, with only the animals for company. You’re sweeping out the barn when you hear distant shouting from the house, but it doesn’t sound frightened and alarmed, just angry. Better not to get involved. You’re just a guest, after all. You had no part in any of this- you didn’t help them hide walkers in their barn, and you sure as hell didn’t pick any fights with the campers. 

The tinge of bitterness remains as you lean on the handle of the broom, watching Hershel walk out of the house, start up one of the trucks parked outside the greenhouse after a few tries, and rumble off down the road. As far as you know, he hasn’t left the farm in months, instead working here tirelessly, day in and day out. The Protestant Work Ethic, you remember learning about in school, like the pilgrims in the New World. Hershel is stubborn as a bull and can be prickly and rigid, but he’s not a lazy man, or a cowardly one. 

You have no idea where he could be going. Maybe he just wants to drive around and clear his head. Maybe it’s a good sign. 

You finish your sweeping and are bringing a bag of potting soil over to the greenhouse when you hear the distant strains of another fierce argument. But it’s not any of the Greenes; it’s Shane and Lori. You stop on the far side of the greenhouse, clutching the warm, heavy bag of soil to your chest. They’re just beyond those trees over there, their voices carried by the warm summer breeze. 

“-come with me, get Carl- we can go tonight- won’t even know-,”

“-crazy, I can’t do that to him- either of them… what would Carl-,”

“-better than staying here and going down with the ship- think smart about this- too many mouths-,”

There’s a frustrated exclamation, and you glimpse Lori stalking off from the grove of trees, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, face red with anger. Shane calls after her once more in aggravation, then curses and looks around. He spots you in the distance, and his face darkens. You tense, but he doesn’t make his way over, just heads off in the opposite direction, the sun beating down hard on his shaved head. 

You bring the bag into the muggy greenhouse. Glenn was right. Shane does want to leave, and just not with the whole group, but with Lori and Carl. In a certain strange light, it does make sense, almost. He thinks he could protect them better alone out there than stay here, where he has to battle for dominance with Rick and put up with Hershel’s demands to leave the property. 

But in the long-run, how is that going to work? Lori will be more and more pregnant, and Carl is just a kid. Neither are going to be able to help Shane scavenge or hunt for food, and what will they do when the baby comes? 

You spread the fresh soil and plant the seeds. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is this. Even as tense as things are here, it’s still better than the uncertainty of being out on the road, not knowing when the next meal is coming or where you’re going to sleep. If you were in the campers’ position, you’d be desperate to stay here, too. If you could organize properly, all of you could work the farm together, but Hershel doesn’t want to admit that, and Rick and Shane are too busy butting heads to make much of an argument either way. 

When you head back into the barn, Maggie is washing out some empty feed bins with a hose, her head down. She looks up when she hears your footsteps, and wipes at her red rimmed eyes. 

“I can do that,” you say, awkwardly. “You should… go rest or something.”

“No,” she says. “I can’t just sit around, I- I guess you saw my dad leave. He buried all my stepmom’s stuff with her. Her jewelry and everything. Beth is… Beth is sleeping now, and Shawn’s making lunch with Clementine.”

You’re relieved that she didn’t leave the house this morning. You don’t say anything. Maggie turns off the hose connected to the water pump. Water drips off the toes of her workboots. She coils up the hose over her hands; her knuckles flex. 

“He’s probably drinking again,” she says, after a moment.

“I thought your dad didn’t drink. At all.”

“Yeah, because he used to be an alcoholic.” Maggie grimaces. “Or still is. I guess. You don’t ever stop. You just stop drinking. And he did. Then he met my mom. Josephine. Jo. They got married and had Shawn and me. Then she died.” She presses her lips together. “He started drinking again, and Otis and Patricia took care of us for a couple months. Then he quit again, and got better. And he met Annette and married her, and they had Beth.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. “Maybe… maybe he’s not.”

“I know he is,” she says, firmly. “So I guess it’s between if he gets eaten by fucking walkers,” her voice cracks, “while drunk, or if he wraps the truck around a pole.”

“We can-,” we can go look for him, you start to say, then shut your mouth. You can’t. You can’t leave Clementine like this again. It’s not safe. 

“It’s fine,” says Maggie, raggedly. “I don’t- I don’t expect you to say anything. Or do anything.” She finishes putting away the hose, then walks by you; you catch her by the wrist.

“My mom,” you say, “she… when I was five she…”

Maggie looks at you, expression softening. “Shawn told me she passed away.”

“She didn’t,” you say. “She got really… sick. Mentally. She had a breakdown. Or something. I guess it just… developed and something triggered it, like being a mom, or- or whatever. And she was in the hospital for a long time, and then she… left. I don’t know where she is. She’d send postcards, sometimes. My dad hid them from me. He knew she was never coming back.”

You’ve never told anyone that. Not any of your friends from high school or college, though some of them knew your mom had left. You’ve never said that much about her to anyone, ever. You never felt like you could. What would they think of you, if they knew your mom was some psycho? What would they think about your dad? Easier to just say she was dead, or that your parents had gotten a tidy divorce and simply lived separate lives. 

Maggie hugs you, tightly; she’s a bear hugger. It chokes the life from you, and your lips brush clumsily across her damp cheek. Before you can mumble an apology, she kisses you back, on the cheek as well, very close to your lips. You blink at one another in shock. Her hair smells good and she’s so warm and solid with muscle in her arms and legs. One of her legs is between yours. Your knees shake, and she releases you. 

You look at each other for a long moment, then get back to work. 

By mid afternoon Hershel has still not returned, and after lunch Shawn declares an intention to head into town to see him. What follows is another vicious fight, since Maggie wants to come with him, but he shouts her down with, “Beth needs you! God forbid something happens out there! You want her to be all alone!”. 

Beth did not come down for lunch; Patricia brought her up a plate. Clementine sits at the far end of the table, shoulder hunched, picking at her sandwich. 

“Let’s go visit Carl,” you tell her quietly, as Maggie angrily washes the dishes. 

“Rick and Glenn offered to head out with me,” Shawn says. “We’ll take the truck, see if we can find him. He’s probably at the tavern.” He sounds like it is taking him a great deal of effort to keep his tone even and calm and reasonable. 

Maggie scrubs harder.

“Be careful,” you say. “Come… come back before dark.”

“We will,” he says, but seems relieved that you aren’t giving him the cold shoulder like his sister. “You be careful back here, too. Don’t wander out alone. Any of you.”

“Yes, Dad,” Maggie says sarcastically, as he leaves. 

Clementine accompanies you over to the campsite. Shane is missing, and you don’t see Carol around, either. Andrea is keeping watch atop the RV, while Dale sits at a small folding table, trying to repair a pair of reading glasses with several small tools. Lori is methodically washing clothes in a borrowed plastic tub. 

Daryl is sitting under a tree, whittling something with a pocket knife. He looks up through his eyelashes at your approach, and gives an odd twist of a half smile when Clementine waves at him. You didn’t know they’d ever even spoken. 

“Hi, Clementine,” Lori says tiredly, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “And Sandra. Carl’s around here somewhere.” 

Carl emerges from behind the RV, Carter on his heels, panting. 

“You’re gonna kill that poor runt, running him around like that,” Daryl drawls. 

“Am not,” Carl flushes. “He likes playing. No one else will.”

“We’re busy, honey.” Lori winces as she wrings out more sodden clothes; her hands are bright red and chapped from constant washing and scrubbing. You wonder if you should get her some gloves from the house or something. “But Clem’s here now.”

“Hey,” Carl says to Clementine. “D’you wanna go see the cows?”

“Yeah,” she says, then glances up at you warily. You try to smile encouragingly, though it probably looks forced. 

“It must be hard,” Lori says, as they scamper off. “Her not having her parents here, and you… I mean, you’re so young, Sandra.” She flushes slightly as she looks up from her washing. “Not that I’m trying to call you a little girl.”

“It’s fine,” you say, and wonder if you should offer to help her with the washing, even though you do enough of that around the house, but then Dale stands up with a groan. 

“Sandra,” he says, amiably. “Would you mind showing me the greenhouse? I’d love to see what you folks have growing in there.”

You stare at him for a moment, but he seems innocent enough. “Sure,” you smile briefly and motion for him to follow you. You can feel Andrea’s gaze on you from above, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I just wanted to say,” Dale says, once you’re out of earshot, “how sorry we all are, again, for things happened yesterday. I’m hoping they bring Hershel back soon. But this must be very difficult for you, feeling caught in the middle.”

You don’t feel caught in the middle, you feel like you’re on the losing side, especially with all those guns Shane and Andrea brought back.

“I don’t really get your group,” you say, finally, as the greenhouse comes into sight. He could just report everything you say back to Rick, but you can tell he doesn’t trust Shane just from the way he was looking at him during that dinner. “I mean… maybe you should split up, if people aren’t agreeing on how to do things.”

He sighs. “That might not be the worst thing, but I… I do worry how Shane might react, depending on… who people side with.”

“Andrea seems pretty fond of him.”

Dale grimaces. “Andrea lost her sister last month. She’s been… coping with it. And I think Shane’s… philosophies are appealing to her, as someone who’s still grieving.”

“What are Shane’s philosophies?” you mutter, yanking open the greenhouse door.

Dale waits until you’re inside and the sound is muffled to respond. “Shane has a policy, at heart,” he says plainly, “of every man for himself. He’s willing to protect the group so long as there’s something in it for him. And now… well, now I think he feels we’re dragging him and the people he loves down.”

You don’t have to ask who the people he loves are. “Then maybe he should go.”

“Maybe,” says Dale. “But Shane also feels some responsibility to the people he loves. To protect them. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

You regard him critically; he still looks like someone’s grandfather, old and kindly, but there’s a sharp light in his eyes you had noticed before. “You’re saying Shane wants to split off with Lori and Carl. And Rick’s obviously not going to let that happen.”

He nods, silently. 

“What about Andrea?”

“I think she’s a distraction for him. But I don’t know how much he really cares for her wellbeing.”

You run your bare fingers through the warm soil. “Look. I think-,” you pause. “I think, Hershel only has one vote here.” You feel like a traitor, but it has to be said. “Shawn and Maggie and Patricia… they might be upset, but they’re not… they can be convinced to let you guys stay. Some of you guys, at least. But Shane…” you shake your head a little. 

Are you actually going to say that you think he might have killed Otis? No. There’s no way in hell you want to risk Shane finding out you’ve been spreading rumors about him to his own group members.

“I understand,” says Dale. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you, Sandra.”

“Why me?” you wrinkle your nose. “I’m not in charge of anyone. Except Clementine.” You feel another jab of guilt. You should apologize to her.

“You’re… neutral territory,” he suggests. “Like Switzerland. You can see both sides.”

“I guess.”

He seems to be considering what to say next, then says, “Rick is a good man. He doesn’t want to see anyone hurt.”

“Yeah,” you say, “well… no one wants to be hurt. And maybe it’s for the best if whatever is going on between him and Shane… doesn’t happen here. Where people could get caught in the middle.” Like me, you think. And Clementine. And Maggie and Shawn and Beth. 

Dale nods again. “We’re still talking about trying Fort Benning.”

“Good luck,” you say, and mean it. Maybe that’s really the best thing for it. Let them pack up and get going. Maggie will be torn up about Glenn leaving, and you will- well, you’ll all just get over it, won’t you? People leave. That’s the way of it. Lee left, didn’t he, to try to find his family, and so did Kenny and Katjaa and Duck. And had they stayed, things might be even more tense around here. You just can’t know for sure.

The day grows later. There’s no sign of Hershel’s return, or of Shawn and the others. You sit on the front porch with Maggie, watching Clementine balancing on a fence in the distance. When she wobbles, Carl grabs her hand to keep her from falling. 

You doubt they’d ever be friends in real life, before all of this, but as the only two kids here, aside from Beth, who’s sixteen, it’s not like they have much choice. At least they do get along. There’s not much for a kid to do here by themselves that isn’t dangerous. Lori keeps a sharp eye on Carl at all times, which is a relief. 

“Me and Lori asked Daryl if he’d ride into town, see if he saw anyone,” Maggie says, polishing some dust off her shoes with a rag. “He all but laughed in our faces, said he was done playing errand boy.”

You exhale. “There’s still time before dark for them to get back.”

Maggie’s brow furrows as she looks past you. “There’s Shane… is that Carol with him?” 

He seems to be helping Carol along, although she doesn’t seem physically hurt, just slumped over and taking slow steps. They’re coming from the direction of the woods. 

“She’s lucky she didn’t get hurt out there by herself,” you say. “No one knew where she went off to today.”

“Maybe that was her plan,” Maggie says darkly.

“Dale wanted to talk to me about Shane and Rick today,” you say. Her head swivels back to you as if on cue. “He basically just said stuff we already knew. They can’t agree on anything, Shane doesn’t give a shit about anyone except Lori and Carl. And the baby too, I guess. If it’s his.”

“What’d you say?”

“I said that we’d prefer if they worked that out somewhere not here.”

Maggie snorts humorlessly. 

“Fat chance of that. They’re in no rush to be back on the road, none of them. Not even Shane, I bet. Not really. What do they think they’re gonna find out there? The military’s gone. Probably retreated back up north to DC or something.”

You shrug. “They have hope, I guess.”

Maggie brushes off her knees, then stands up. “I should go check on Beth. Make sure she ate something today.”

You let her go, your cheek tingling where she kissed it this morning.

The sun slinks down low. No one’s come back from town. T-Dog stops by the house while you, Patricia, Maggie, and Clementine are eating dinner to tell you that Shane is setting up patrols around the property tonight, and that he means to go search for them himself in the morning.

“I’m coming with you,” Maggie says, in between bites of venison. “I’ll be down at the RV at dawn.”

Patricia frowns, but doesn’t protest. You trace your fork along the edge of your plate. No. This is the right choice. You have to stay. You’ve gone racing off enough this week. 

Maggie takes her shower first tonight, so you say goodnight to Clementine alone in her room. Maggie’s room is small; all the bedrooms in this house are pretty small, with a twin bed with an old wrought iron headboard painted white, and furniture straight out of the 1950s, incongruous with the rest of her more contemporary and tomboyish style, though her bedspread is faded purple and blue stripes. Clementine is sitting in the pullout trundle bed beneath it, already dressed in a pair of oversized pyjamas. She looks even younger like that. 

You crouch down awkwardly beside her. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m sorry I got mad at you this morning. And I’m sorry I haven’t paid you much attention. I don’t know how to be a good babysitter. I didn’t know I was going to be looking after you forever.”

“Not forever,” she says indignantly. “I’ll be nine in October.”

“And you’ll still need someone to look after you then, too.”

She bites her lip, and looks at you from under her lashes. She has long, pretty eyelashes. You’re almost envious of them. You barely have any at all. “I can look after you too. Just because you’re bigger doesn’t mean you’re smarter.”

You have to laugh a little at that. “I guess not. Are we good?” You prod her fist with your own, sheepishly. Who talks to a kid like this? But this isn’t normal. You’re not her schoolteacher and you’re not her mother, and the world is different and dangerous and if she doesn’t trust you, she might run off and do something stupid and get herself killed and it will be all your fault.

“Yeah,” she blows out a gusty sigh, and bumps your first with her own. 

Beth is lying in bed stiffly when you enter her room. You can tell she isn’t asleep, but her eyes are tightly closed, her face half-buried in the pillow. You creep over to the air mattress, lay down as gingerly as ever, and fall asleep almost immediately. Tonight you dream of kissing Maggie in the berry patch, but the brambles full of thorns around you snare at your clothes and prick your skin, until they aren’t brambles at all, but hands and teeth, tearing you apart. 

You wake with a violent start; the sky is pinkish purple as the dawn rises outside, and people are shouting. Beth is still half asleep as you scramble out of the room and down the stairs, your shoes only half on. You collide with Patricia, who is standing in the doorway, peering anxiously outside; she stumbles forward, and then you see Maggie standing in front of the porch with the campers.

The men are back from the town, too; they’re filthy and Glenn and Rick are both splattered with blood, but seemingly unharmed. Hershel looks sallow and shaken, but his voice still rises fiercely as he argues with Shane and Daryl. 

Andrea stands off to the side, her arms folded under her chest, scowling, while Dale tries to be heard over the shouting, until Rick finally interrupts.

“Enough! For now, he stays in the barn. Secured. While Hershel looks at his leg.”

“Whose leg?” Maggie bursts out, leaning on the porch rail, fingers digging into the wood. “Goddamn, if you’d all just shut up for five seconds and tell us what’s happening-,”

“We got attacked by some guys while we were in town,” Shawn says, hoarse and faint. His eyes are wide with shock, dilated as if he were drunk or high. He doesn’t have much blood on him, but there’s a scrape on his cheek and his hands are dirty. He swallows, then says, “Shot a few of them. One of them fell and hurt his leg trying to get away.”

“You brought him back here?” Patricia gasps.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Shane snaps, looking around to the others. “Of all the reckless-,”

“I know the guy,” Shawn admits. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if to block out the memory. “He recognized me.” 

Glenn sighs heavily. Hershel is running a hand over his face. “Maggie, you do too. And Beth.”

“Who is it?” Maggie demands, looking between her brother and father.

“It’s Randall,” Shawn says, as Hershel shakes his head. “Randall Stewart. He goes to school with Beth. Well. Went to. He was graduating this year.”

“Randall Stewart attacked you?” Maggie asks incredulously, her voice rising slightly in shock. “Are you sure it’s him?”

“Yes,” says Shawn. “He came in with these other guys looking for their buddies. Who tried to kill us. They wanted to know where we were from, where the farm was. They were from up north, but Randall? He’s local. A lot of that group probably is.”

“We still blindfolded him,” Rick cuts in-

“No point,” says Hershel. “He saw me and Shawn, heard our voices. Randall Stewart came here for a school trip in the eighth grade. He goes- he went to our church. He knows exactly where he is.” His tone is flat with defeat.

“And exactly how to lead people back here, the second you let him go,” Shane says curtly. 

Patricia turns away, looking like she might retch. You hear footsteps on the stairs behind you, but can’t bring yourself to turn around and face Clementine.

“Randall was a nice, quiet kid,” Maggie says in disbelief. “Why would he be running around with a bunch of- of criminals?”

“I’ve got some stories for you about nice kids and the shit they pull, girl,” Daryl says sardonically. “Especially when they don’t see nothing better on the horizon.”

“Regardless,” Hershel clears his throat, straightens some from his slumped position. He looks like he aged ten years in a single night. “His leg needs to be cleaned out and stitched up. And we’ll just have to pray he doesn’t get tetanus from that fence he fell on.”

“You want to heal the guy who tried to shoot you?” Andrea demands.

He ignores that and heads into the house to get his bag; while he seems perfectly sober now, you can smell the whiskey on his clothes and skin from here. Maggie once again looks like she might be sick. 

“I think we should all get some rest,” Rick says, in the stunned silence that follows. “We’re not deciding anything wound up like this.”

Shane is already stalking away. 

Shawn looks dead on his feet, shaking a little from exhaustion. When he seems about to wobble, you grab his arm; he smiles gratefully down at you as you lead him into the house. Maggie is saying something to Glenn, but you don’t hear their conversation as you move inside. 

“If Randall knows where this place is,” you say, “and other people in his group are from around here…”

Shawn just nods tiredly. “Sooner or later,” he says, “they’ll pay us a visit.”

Your blood runs cold, and suddenly you are wide awake, even as he yawns and grimaces, brushing gravel off his jeans. 

“You should go back to bed too,” he says. “I’m serious, Sandra.”

You respond in kind, and head back up to Beth’s room, where she is sitting up in bed, hugging her knees against her chest. 

“Everyone’s alright,” you say. “They just… some guy attacked them and they brought him back here.”

“Is he...” she trails off, blinking hard. 

“He’s alive,” you say, uncomfortable. “Just hurt his leg. His name’s Randall. You know him?”

Beth rubs at her eyes, confused, maybe wondering if this is part of a strange dream. “He was the year above me in school. He did choir with me for a semester.”

“He’s running with some bad people now, they’re saying.”

She yawns, still half asleep. “What? Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess he had nowhere else to go.” 

You look down at the air mattress. 

“Just lay here,” she says, waving blearily at the bed. 

You lie down next to her, feeling the springs in the mattress dig into your back. 

“I hate this,” she whispers. “All of it.”

You want to reply to her, but the wave of exhaustion hits you, and you never find the words.


	7. Chapter 7

JUNE 2012

The next few days offer a slow trickle of information. None of it reassures you. Randall is being kept in the vehicle barn, the one that used to hold the walkers. You and Shawn went in there once to try to hose it down, but you don’t think that smell will ever truly fade. He must be sick to his stomach, kept locked in a storeroom, good leg handcuffed to a metal pole. You feel sorry for him, and you then you feel angry with yourself for feeling sorry for him. 

Hershel cleaned and stitched up Randall’s leg, the same way he did Lee’s, months ago, but thinks he’ll have permanent nerve damage, and may always walk with a slight limp. It’s not as if you’re offering physical therapy here. Randall is fed twice a day, at dawn and at dusk, with leftovers from whatever Patricia or Lori or Carol has cooked. Aside from his leg injury, he’s unharmed and healthy enough; he clearly wasn’t starving before this. 

It’s hard to keep track of who’s questioning him; one day it’s Rick, then it’s Shane, then it’s Shawn, and one day Daryl, of all people, who’s then kicked out by Rick after he started kicking the actual crap out of Randall. No one seems to want to tell you or the others anything; it’s all some hushed back-and-forth between the men ostensibly in charge, but you find out anyways.

The men Rick killed in town were called Dave and Tony. They fled down from Philadelphia. They were talking about possible safe zones, like Nebraska, or Wyoming. Then they started asking about where the farm was, and how they could get there. Then they pulled their guns and Rick shot them. You believe that really happened, because Shawn’s not a good enough liar to cover for Rick, and Hershel probably wouldn’t on principle.

Randall’s not a good liar either, so mostly he doesn’t even try. Yes, Dave and Tony were part of his group. Yes, he came into town looking for them, with two other men, Sean and Jason. Hershel shot Sean, and the walkers that came prowling when the gunfire broke out finished him off. No one knows where Jason is; Randall thinks he got away, and if he did, it’s likely he survived to report back to Randall’s group.

Randall’s group does not have a name and they do not have a mission statement. Randall’s group is about thirty men, ten or so women, and a few children. The majority of the group is male, young or middle aged, and childless. 

When pressed (and you don’t want to know how Randall was ‘pressed’), he admitted that he is not the only one in the group who could conceivably know whereabouts this farm is. A few others would have some idea of its location as well. Jason didn’t know the Greenes, though, so he wouldn’t. Is anyone coming looking for Randall? Randall swears they’ll give him up for dead; he’s not that valuable to them. What if Randall is released and goes back to them? 

He swears he won’t, swears he’d never make it back to them on foot; their base is some forty minutes west of here by car. What is their base, exactly? An old daycare center and preschool, a series of interconnected trailers. How have they been surviving? Scavenging, mostly, but they’ve had to go further and further; the area around their base is either picked clean already, or overrun with walkers, and they’re unwilling to risk clearing it out. 

Who’s in charge of his group? Every time he’s asked, Randall gives a different, desperate answer, trying to find one that Rick or Shane or Shawn like. First he says they don’t really have a leader, that they decide things amongst themselves. Then he says that technically, this guy Jimmy is their leader. 

No, wait, it’s not really Jimmy, it’s these brothers, Chris and Eric. No, that’s not right, it’s Brian McAllister, he went to high school with you, Shawn, remember? You played baseball together, he’s good, he’s a good guy-

“One day,” Shawn says to you and Maggie, as you pull weeds, “they’re just struggling to survive, they don’t want any trouble. The next day, the dumbass is telling Rick that oh, remember Jimmy? Yeah, he and Brian McAllister raped some girls we found camping up on that ridge You know, that ridge all the boy scouts used to camp on? What the fuck is wrong with him?”

You don’t know what the fuck is wrong with Randall. You imagine he’s just saying whatever he thinks, in the moment, will keep him alive, whether that’s professing innocence, confessing his guilt, or throwing the other men under the bus so he looks gentle as a lamb in comparison. 

“You can’t take anything he says seriously,” Maggie says, a lock of hair falling into her eyes. “He’s a terrified kid, Shawn. He’s just saying whatever comes to mind. He thinks you’re going to kill him.”

Shawn is silent. You glance up from the cabbage patch you are crouched in. Sweat drips down Maggie’s bare, tanned arm. 

“Shawn,” she says, “you’re not actually going to hurt him, right? Let him heal up, then drive him out as far as you can and dump him there. He’s not some little psychopath, he’s just a dumbass local yokel. He’ll run off and find some other group to join up with.”

“Yeah?” says Shawn. “And brings them right back here? Or links up with his friends, does the same thing? We were fucked the moment he recognized me and Dad, Maggie.”

“You don’t know that,” you say.

“You didn’t see those guys in the bar, or the guys he came with, looking for them,” Shawn shakes his head. “They weren’t kidding around, okay? They would have killed all of us, no questions asked. Randall- look, I get it, he’s young, but he’s not an innocent little kid. He’s eighteen, he would have graduated school by now, he knows what he’s doing.”

“Clearly not!” Maggie snaps. She glances at you, then back up at Shawn. “Look, you just have to intimidate him, you don’t have to hurt him. Let Daryl and Shane threaten him a bit, and dump him off somewhere. He’ll just about crap himself and run for his life. He’s not going to be thinking about revenge.”

“I don’t think he’s going to want revenge,” Shawn says. “I think he’s going to want what everyone wants. Food, and shelter, and a place to stay for more than a few nights at a time. A place like this.”

You can hear Carl and Clementine’s distant yells as they kick an old ball around, and Carter’s yips. Despite the cloud of tension and fury and grief that’s been hanging over the farm for the past few weeks, it is still beautiful. The weather’s held up nicely, though you could use some rain, and the sky is bright blue, the grass is green, the soil warm beneath your hands and feet. 

You picture what it might look like if Randall’s group come looking for him. Or even if they don’t. If they realize where you are, where this place is, and what they could do with it. 

“I guess Rick’s group isn’t looking so crazy right now,” is all you can think to say. “Compared to the alternatives.”

Shawn just sighs, and goes to check on the beehives, leaving you and Maggie to continue weeding.

“Beth should be out here,” Maggie says, shaking her head, as if that conversation didn’t just happen. She’s barely been outside at all in days, and I know she’s not really teaching Clementine much lately. 

“Technically it’s summer vacation now,” you mutter. At the look Maggie gives you, you say, “You just need to give her time. She’s… she’s not like you, she doesn’t… cope with stuff by doing.”

“I know,” says Maggie. “I know. I don’t… she’s been through a lot, and she’s just a kid. God, she’s only a year younger than Randall. That asshole. They never should have brought him back here.”

“Glenn said he would have died out there if they just left him bleeding like that.”

“Yeah, and now they’re talking about killing him anyways. What was the point?” she scoffs. “They wanted to have a whole debate about it, instead? They didn’t realize how fucked up this was until they’d had Dad fix up his leg? Men are such- such-,” she struggles to rip up a particularly gnarly weed. You brace your hands around hers, and pull together- “Stupid assholes!”

You exhale into the back of her neck; she turns slightly and smiles grimly at you, then loops her sweaty arm around your shoulders. “Dale told me yesterday that Rick’s talking about putting it to a vote,” you tell her. “He wants us to vote no. To executing him.”

“Executing him?” she hauls you up by the hand; you relish the feeling of her hand in yours, and squeeze before you let go. “Is that what they want to call it? What crime did he commit? They should stop pussyfooting around it. If we kill him, that’s murder.”

“He was taking shots at them,” you say, lamely. 

“They killed his friends,” she shrugs, and then her mouth twists. “His wannabe rapist scumbag scavenger friends. Fuck! I don’t know, so what, we try him based off of the guys he was with? The shit he’s seen them do? How does that work?”

“They send people to jail for being lookouts or driving getaway cars all the time,” you say. 

“Well, we’re not sending him to jail, are we? I think the state prison might be a little full right now,” she snorts. “If we- who are they gonna have do it? Shane, the fucking beast? He might do it himself, before Rick’s happy little vote, any day now. Who else? Daryl? What, we tie him to a tree and let Daryl shoot him with his crossbow? Shawn?” her voice cracks. “They can’t make my brother do it. That would- it’s too much. Shawn can’t do it.”

Shawn could do it, you think, he’s already made up his mind about that much. 

“My dad won’t,” Maggie shakes her head. “He’s a pacifist.”

“I thought he fought in Vietnam.” You found an old jacket of his, once, in Beth’s closet. You guess she wears it around sometimes, maybe in the winter. It had all these pins on it. 

“That’s why he’s a pacifist. He won’t do it. He thinks it’s against God, killing people like that, even murderers and rapists. Unless you’re fighting for your life or trying to save someone else’s life.”

“That might be how Rick and Shane see it. How Shawn sees it.” 

How I see it, you think. You don’t know Randall. You don’t want to know Randall. You want this problem to go away. And if Shane did go rogue and shoot him tonight, no vote involved, you wouldn’t even have to feel that guilty about it. It’s not a good thought. But it’s an honest one. 

“I guess they’ll let Beth have a vote,” Maggie says. “She’ll be seventeen in August, and that’s almost eighteen, anyways. Carl and Clementine, no. So you, me, Shawn and Daddy and Patricia, and the others… How many is that? Thirteen?”

“Yeah. It can’t be a tie.” You dump more weeds into the rusting wheelbarrow. “When do you think they’ll hold it?”

Maggie squints up at the cloudless sky. “Daddy swears it’s gonna rain tomorrow. Probably do it then.”

Sure enough, it clouds over into the afternoon, and is damp and threatening rain by dusk. You’re putting the wheelbarrow away in the shed behind the house when you notice Shawn grimly taking a covered plate from Patricia at the back door. You realize he wants to feed Randall his dinner before the rain starts up. You wonder if they’ll give him more food than usual in the morning, if it’s his last meal. 

Before you know what you’re doing, you find yourself following him. He looks at you for a minute, and then his shoulders slouch; he doesn’t protest your company. You trek across the grass towards the barn. 

“You know the last time I saw Randall Stewart, before this week?” Shawn asks suddenly. “At the winter school concert. Beth was singing in the choir and he was in the band. Playing the trumpet. I think I saw his mom and sister too.” He pauses. “He says they died in the very beginning of all this. His mom got sick, and his sister... “ he trails off. “He doesn’t have anyone left.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Neither do you, except Clementine. But if you’d ended up with worse people, what would you have done? 

Kept your head down and taken it day by day, probably. 

Is that what Randall’s been doing, these past few months, or has he enjoyed it, the freedom, the lack of consequences? Did he say anything when they hurt those people? Would you have? 

The smell inside the barn is something awful. You muffle your nose and mouth with your tee-shirt as Shawn leads the way over to the storeroom door; heavy wood, padlocked shut. He unlocks it, motioning for you to stand back. It creaks open to reveal a terrified boy in the corner, one leg laid flat across the filthy floor, pant leg chopped off at the knee. 

His hair is matted and greasy from lack of washing, and his face is pale and sweaty. He doesn’t seem to be cuffed anymore; he scoots forward a little and peers anxiously at you as Shawn warily sets down the plate of food, one hand on the gun at his hip. 

“Who took the cuffs off?”

“Rick,” Randall rasps, licking his lips nervously. “I’m not gonna be any trouble. You could… You could just lock up the barn, you don’t have to lock the door too.” His only light is a small dirty window in the back of the storeroom, covered in masses of dead flies. 

Shawn says nothing, checking the water bottles left for Randall to drink from. 

“Hi,” Randall says to you, hoarsely. “Who’re you?”

You stand there, frozen. You’ve never seen anyone in this state before. The smell coming off him, and the desperate, almost animalistic look in his red-rimmed, swollen eyes… You feel like you’re in a horror movie. On the side of the killers.

“Don’t talk to her,” Shawn says, flatly, backing out and closing the door behind him, ignoring Randall’s muffled protests. 

You all but dart out of the barn, forcing back bile in your throat. 

“I know,” Shawn says, once you’re back outside. “It’s… I don’t like it either. And even if we released him… that might be worse, Sandra. How far do you think he’d get? His leg is still swollen up. He’ll never make it on his own. Wouldn’t that be crueler than…” he trails off, than says, firmly, “than a quick, clean death?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “We could… we could wait. Give it time, see if… if his group is back in the area or not, and if they’re not, maybe we could…” You don’t know what.

“I know you heard the story about what they did to those girls,” Shawn says. “But that wasn’t the only story he told us, about his group. They didn’t just let those girls and their dad go, after they were done with them.”

Blood rushes to your ears. “I don’t want to hear anymore.”

You have to stop walking so you don’t puke; your legs are shaking. 

“I’m sorry,” Shawn says, a hand ghosting along your shoulder. “I- shit, Sandra, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I shouldn’t have let you see him, none of this is your fault-,”

“I know it’s not,” you choke out. “I just- I wish things were the way they were before.” 

Before what? Before you and Maggie went hunting, before you came home to babysit Clementine? Before all of this? 

“We’ll figure this out,” Shawn says. “I promise. No one else is going to get hurt.” He pulls you into a hesitant embrace; he smells like sweat and deodorant and grass. For a moment you crumple slightly; it’s nice just to be held by someone, anyone, before the first drop of warm rain hits your forehead, and you step away. 

Your walk back to the house is more of a run; it starts as a trickle, and then sky gradually opens up. You hear distant shouts; the campers are taking refuge in the RV and their tents, dismayed by the downpour. The cows are trudging back into the barn. 

Beth doesn’t come down for dinner, again. Maggie sets aside some food for her, and the rest of you eat in silence, an uncomfortably familiar experience. Hershel still seems bowed with guilt or grief or both, sawing at his food with knife and fork, while Maggie eats quickly; you resentfully wonder if she’s still sneaking off to meet with Glenn at night, or if they’ve had a permanent falling out. 

Clementine wants to know if you can play board games tonight; it’s one of the few activities left to you, besides reading or listening to Hershel or Beth play music. 

Hershel agrees, and the two of you set it up on the porch while he, Patricia, and Shawn take care of the dishes for once. Clementine is bent over her task, but then, without looking up, as you sort through the Monopoly money, says, “Are they going to kill Beth’s friend?”

“Randall’s not her friend,” you say. “He’s just someone she went to school with.”

But that’s not what she was asking. 

“I don’t know,” you admit, as she arranges the pieces on the board. “I think tomorrow, we- the adults are going to talk about what to do with him.”

“If they kill him, how are they going to do it?” Clementine asks. “Carl says they’ll shoot him, and we might get to watch.” Her small nose wrinkles up. 

“Carl said that?”

“Carl’s just mad,” she shrugs briefly. “Sometimes he says mean things, because he’s mad. And sad. He misses Sophia a lot.”

“Who is he mad at?” 

You arrange the lantern so you can see the glossy board spread out on the floor. Rain patters overhead. You wonder if she is mad, too. At you, or the Greenes in general, or even Lee, for not taking her south with him, to Macon, to Savannah. She still tries to talk to him over the walkie, sometimes. You’ve heard its crackle in the night, through the walls. 

“Everyone,” says Clementine. “His dad and his mom for fighting all the time, and… and Shane, too, and his whole group, ‘cause they treat him like a baby and don’t let him do anything. And the people here, because they won’t let them stay.” She frowns. “I think we should let them stay. If they can be good people.”

What about Randall, you want to ask her. Is he a good person? But then the others are tramping out onto the porch then, and the moment is past. Hershel summons up a smile as he sits down on the porch swing besides Patricia, his weathered hands on his knees. 

“Who’s dealing the money?”

“I am,” you say, as Maggie slinks out as well, her hand firmly gripping a miserable looking Beth’s arm. You force a smile. “And I’m really good at this game, so… beware.”

“Ooh, scary,” Shawn jokes.

Maggie snorts, and sits down cross-legged on the floor next to you, her knee jutting up against yours. You feel a swell of ridiculous relief that she is here, close, not sneaking off with Glenn, that she is choosing to sit next to you. 

You deal her in first, with a more genuine grin, while Shawn wraps an arm around Beth and pulls her close. Her head lolls against his shoulder as if she doesn’t even have the energy to sit up straight. Hershel glances over you, the young people, with a strange look on his old face, almost sorry. For who, you’re not sure. 

The rain has lightened to a tedious but bearable sprinkle by the next morning, so after the cursory chores in the barn, you find yourself sitting in a corner of the Greenes’ old-fashioned living room, filled now with more people than have ever been in here before. Carl and Clementine are ushered out back and told to play quietly on the porch, despite the looks of betrayal and noises of protest. The rest of you gather around; Patricia makes tea and coffee, or whatever passes for it these days. 

The campers look damp and bedraggled from a night out in rainy tents, but Rick wastes little time in getting to the point. 

“The way I look at it,” he says, speaking slowly, in between fortifying sips of his black coffee, “we have two options. None of us are comfortable with keeping Randall here-,”

“God no,” says Andrea. Lori nods in agreement; Patricia sighs. 

“So we need to decide whether we are going to release him…” Rick trails off; Shane scowls, and then he says, “Or execute him. I don’t think any of us want this to be some spur of the moment decision, so we should talk about this. Civilly.”

“If you mean to kill that boy,” Hershel says, calmly, “you’re not doing it on my property, and my family isn’t having any part of it.” 

He looks at Shawn, who looks away, shoulders tensed under his denim jacket. 

“That’s not going to be an issue,” Shane says. “And what’s worse is dragging it out to this degree. I think we all know what the answer is here, so-,”

“If we release him,” Carol interrupts, chewing her lower lip, “are you going to give him any supplies? Where would you let him go?”

Rick nods. “We’d give him a day or two’s worth of food and water in a backpack, and drive him out at least thirty minutes north or south of here. Probably near a body of water, or a town.”

“What if he lied about where his group was from?” Daryl asks gruffly. “He might be hoping you drop him right back into their laps.”

“That kid’s scared shitless,” T-Dog shakes his head, frowning. “He’s not lying about anything, at this point.”

“The truth will set you free,” Glenn says under his breath. 

“If we don’t release him,” Dale is looking sharply between Rick and Shane, eyes narrowed. “How do you plan to do this?”

Shane answers first, without hesitation. “Blindfold him, take him out into the woods, put a bullet in his head. Leave him for walker food.”

Hershel scowls, and Beth looks away, shoulders trembling. 

Maggie glares at Shane, taking her sister’s hand. 

“What if his group comes looking for him?” Shawn says. 

“Daryl scouted out the town yesterday,” Rick says. “There’s no sign anyone else has been through there recently, looking for him. They might have just given him up for dead.”

“Or that Jason guy might have heard and seen enough to give them some idea of where we are,” Andrea points out. “They might be biding their time, trying to lull us into thinking everything’s fine and dandy.”

“I doubt it,” says Shane, flatly. “Chances are, if that asshole Jason did make it back to them in one piece, he doesn’t know shit. It was dark, it was a fire-fight, he wasn’t a townie to begin with. He doesn’t know how many of you there were,” he looks at Rick, “or what his group might be up against if he leads the charge back here. He probably think Randall is long dead. That group isn’t going to risk it for the chance of revenge. They’ll sit tight and keep going on as they have been until they really start to get desperate enough to pack up and move. Which will be once autumn comes, and it starts getting colder and harder to find food.”

There’s a moment of silence as that settles over the group. This farm has plenty enough land to feed all of you, it’s just a question of what and how you plant from here until September. Even then, you might be able to grow some plants in the greenhouse so long as you can keep it heated. But who will be here to grow that food? You can almost see the gears in Hershel’s head turning. Is he having a change of heart? Does he feel like he owes them, at all, for Rick and Glenn helping Shawn search for him? Or is he still contemptuous of Shane’s brutal reasoning?

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you.

“Right now,” Rick admits, “Randall is our immediate threat. We can’t be sure, wherever we release him, that he won’t find his way back to his group, and lead them here down the line. Whether that’s a few weeks or a few months from now.”

“But that was a risk before you ever had that run-in,” Patricia says. “Randall knew where we lived before all of this. He could have told them months ago about us. So if that’s the crime we’re trying this boy for…” she exhales. “Well, is it?”

No one seems to know how to answer this. 

“He’s eighteen years old,” Dale says. “I can’t speak for the people he’s joined up with, but it doesn’t seem to me like he had much choice in the matter. He was just trying to survive. Like any of us. And unlike us, he started this alone, without friends or family. We are not the kind of people who try and execute a young man on ‘maybes’ and ‘buts’.”

Lori looks like she might start to cry, resting her head in her hands, and even Andrea seems slightly softened, her brow creased. Carol shifts anxiously in her seat, and Glenn sighs, running a hand through his hair.

Daryl is unmoved. “You say that now, but what happens in a month when he’s back with his buddies?” He glances around the room. “Y’all here ready to fight for this land? You think we can just send ‘em off with a strongly worded warning? You think they aren’t willing to kill for what they want?” His gaze lands on you, and Maggie, and Beth. “You think they won’t kill every man here, round up the women and girls-,”

“Enough,” Hershel snaps. “Enough. I won’t have you terrifying my daughters-,”

“I’m not terrified,” Maggie says fiercely, “I’m pissed. And if they come calling, put that rifle back in my hand, and I promise you I won’t miss the shot. But for God’s sake- sorry, Daddy- that might just happen whether we shoot Randall or not. And I’d rather not have that blood on my hands!”

“Maggie,” Shawn begins, but then everyone’s talking, arguing. You wish you could say something, anything, snappy and decisive. You can’t. You feel useless and weak, but you have no words, no advice. What’s humiliating and shameful is the realization that you are prepared to go along with whatever verdict they decide on, to simply submit to the majority will, rather than stand up for your beliefs. 

What are your beliefs? Well, even before all this, you were never too sure of that, were you? 

Finally, Rick shouts something, and everyone more or less quiets again. 

“Look,” he says. “We can argue about this until we’re blue in the face, but I think, at heart, we’re all more or less decided. So we’ll vote on it, now.” 

Patricia is handing around a wicker basket full of scraps of paper, while Carol hands out some pens. You wonder what you’re supposed to write, then realize, that’s the point. You’re going to have to write it out. Release him, or kill him. People spread out a little, angle their bodies away from one another. Maggie smiles briefly at you before scribbling her answer down without hesitation. Your stomach churns as you glance down at your own slip. No one else seems to be wasting much time.

You decide not to think about it. 

Release, you write in your narrow, cramped handwriting, than fold it over and place it in the basket. Within moments, it’s done. 

T-Dog is given the honors of sorting through the votes as everyone else waits anxiously. He counts and double-counts the sorted slips, then says, “It’s seven to release him, six to execute him.”

There’s a grim silence. Shane and Daryl scowl outright, while others, like Dale and Glenn, look openly relieved. Beth starts to cry, silently, wiping at her eyes. 

Rick’s expression is unreadable for a few moments, and then he says, “Well, we’ve voted. Tomorrow morning we’ll release him somewhere as far from here as we can make it. For now, we’ll proceed as normal. He doesn’t get told anything, alright? We don’t want him getting any ideas.”

The group disperses quietly, until you step into the kitchen and realize Carl and Clementine aren’t on the porch, or in the yard behind the house, or the vegetable patch. 

“Carl! Clementine! Come back inside!” you call out, trying to keep your tone contained, but the others immediately pick up on your concern.

“Where’s Carl?” Lori demands, and sets off around the side of the house, face white. 

“Not again,” Daryl snarls, while Rick swallows, and says, “They can’t have gone far, they’re probably just playing, we’ll find them-,”

“Clementine wouldn’t have gone into the woods,” you say. “She knows better than that.”

“So does Carl,” Carol says, shaking her head; her voice shakes with it. 

“Shawn, come with me, we’ll check the barns first,” Hershel orders. “Everyone else, fan out-,”

“The cottage,” Maggie grabs your arm. “What if Clementine wanted to show him the cottage?”

It seems as good a guess as any. Her and Carl have been all over the farm, but not all the way on the other side of the property, down the dirt lane. You can see them in your head, making the walk in the rain. Carter is missing too. He would have happily trotted along with them.

The rain begins to increase again. 

“We’ll take the ATV,” Maggie says, ignoring Shawn’s protest, and you follow her over to the shed, push it out, and hop on as she straddles it behind you. You’ve done this once or twice before, while the Greene siblings coached you, once with Clementine clinging to your back, screaming in your ear, until Patricia told you all off for letting her ride without a helmet. 

Neither you or Maggie are riding helmets, but right now you don’t really care. You roar down the road and across the fields, Maggie’s chin slotted into your collarbone, and brake when the cottage comes into view. 

“CLEMENTINE!” you shout. “CARL!”

Carter comes running over, barking, but neither of them appear. 

You and Maggie hop off and jog over to the small house, shuttered and locked up; there’s no way for them to have gotten in without a key, and you even check under the back porch, but they’re not here. 

“Shit,” says Maggie. “Shit. Maybe they did go into the woods, or they went out to the beehives-,”

There’s a distant shout, and you whirl around to see Carl and Clementine both running over to you, wet and terrified but seemingly unhurt. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snap, unable to keep the anger from your voice as they approach, eyes big and wild.

“We went to see the swamp,” Clementine gasps, “to see if we could get any frogs, like Otis showed me-,”

A few days into your stay here, Otis gave you and Clementine a brief tour of the property, ending with the small swamp, or bog, or marsh, in the woods just behind the cottage, where there were frogs and insects and a level of muck thrilling to anyone under the age of twelve. 

“What happened?” Maggie takes Carl by the shoulders. “Did you see someone?”

“There was a walker stuck in it,” Carl admits, red-faced, “and we were poking at it-,”

“Jesus Christ,” you groan aloud. 

“Where is it?” Maggie demands, looking around wildly. 

“It’s still stuck there,” Clementine says, “it just scared us, is all-,”

You and Maggie look at each other, but neither of you has a gun on you at the moment. 

“Let’s ride back quick,” you say, “and then Shawn or Daryl or someone can deal with it.”

Maggie nods, casting another furtive look back at the darkened woods behind the cottage, and you usher the children away. 

But the walker, if there was one, is gone, by the time Shawn checks it out. There’s no sign of it further down the fenceline, and he hopes it just wandered back into the woods. Still, it’s not a good feeling, to think it could just be out there, wandering across the fields, and he does two circuits on the ATV to check, but there’s no sign of it anywhere. 

Carl gets what looks like the tongue-lashing of his life from his terrified parents, while you have to wait until you’ve calmed down enough to lay into Clementine about how stupid that was. She’s a good kid in that she doesn’t burst into tears at the scolding, and seems chastened, admits she knows it wasn’t smart. 

“I just… I just wanted to make Carl happier,” she tells you, as you clean mud off her sneakers with a rag. “I thought it’d be cool to show him…”

“I get it,” you say. “But you can’t just do stuff like that, even if he thinks it’s a good idea. I’s not safe. What if that walker had really gotten both of you? How do you think we’d all feel?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, and hugs you. 

After a moment, you return the gesture, resting your chin atop her head. 

“It’s okay. Just don’t ever do that again. You scared the crap out of me.”

“No cursing,” she scolds, with a small smile.

Dinner is a slightly more light-hearted affair that night; Clementine seems pleased to hear that Randall is being released in the morning, and Beth seems a little happier too, or at least not as openly depressed. You know it’s probably just temporary, though. It’s like that for you, too. Brief spots of joy and relief, in between long, numb periods of nothingness. You play Clue after dinner, instead of Monopoly, and it feels weirdly good to hear everyone laugh and talk normally again, even if Shawn’s eyes are still troubled and Hershel still has a grave undertone to his gravelly laughter. 

But for the first time in a while, you get ready for bed feeling like there’s less of a wait on your shoulders. There’s still Shane and the others to worry about, but at least everyone seemed to accept the outcome of the vote. Maggie and you stay up in the hallway for a little while, chatting, until you concede to how tired you are from the day’s stress, and say goodnight. 

Beth is working on something at her desk, so you don’t want to bother her, but eventually she finishes whatever she’s doing- cutting and pasting?- and turns out her light and gets into bed. You doze off quickly, and are in the midst of a strange dream about being stuck in the swamp with Maggie, up to your waist, and thick, cloying mud, as if you’re sinking in quicksand and can’t get her to understand that you’re trapped-

You wake up, not from the sound of a scream or shout, but the creak of floorboards. 

“Beth?” you whisper. You sit up and see her with her hand on the doorknob. 

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” she says, but she has her jacket and shoes on. 

“What are you doing?” you press, and notice she’s holding something against her chest. A book? “What is that?”

She looks around, aggravated, then whispers, “Keep your voice down!”

As you slowly stand up, rubbing at your eyes, she reluctantly lets you see what she’d holding. It’s one of her notebooks, full of pasted pictures, cut out from yearbooks and other old photos. They’re all of Randall and another smiling, brunette girl who you realize must be his sister. 

“We go to- we went to a really small school,” Beth says. “I know it… I know it looks creepy, but I just thought… he probably doesn’t have any photos left of… of him and his family, so I thought I could just leave this for him.”

“You could just give it to Rick tomorrow,” you say.

Beth shakes her head. “I don’t trust him and Shane, and they’re getting up before dawn to drive Randall out, anyways. I was just going to slide it under the storeroom door, in the barn. There’s a gap.”

You grimace, glance down at the smiling, happy photos again, think of your dad, then say, “Okay. Okay, I’ll go with you. But we’re taking a weapon. Just in case.”

You feel ridiculous trooping outside after her with a shovel over your shoulder, but it’s better than nothing, and it’s light enough to swing without winding yourself or dropping it on your foot. You look around nervously, and Beth does too, as you make you way over to the barn, but there’s no one else around, and the campsite in the distance is quiet and still.

“Did you know Randall that well?” you ask her, as you near the barn.

“We’d say hi and stuff sometimes,” she says. “We had different friends. His sister was really nice, though. Whitney. She was two years younger than me, but she sang in choir, too, at school and for church. I guess she died at the beginning.” Her voice gets thicker and hoarser. “Like… like a lot of my friends.”

“Mine too,” you say, though you don’t know that for sure. 

Beth offers you a sad smile, and then the two of you cautiously slip inside the barn. You keep a couple of paces behind her, grip on the shovel firm, looking around cautiously, but the barn is empty. You near the door, and are relieved to see it still padlocked securely shut. There’s no noise from inside. Randall’s probably asleep. Or wishing he could fall asleep. He had a ratty quilt in there with him to sleep on, but not much else. 

Beth crouches down, and slips the slim notebook under the gap in the door, then stands back up, looking relieved for a moment, then terrified the next, as she looks behind you. 

You didn’t hear a thing, but you feel the cold metal on your neck, whatever it is. Your grip tightens on the shovel handle, but then you let it slip to the floor when the cold pressure increases, sharp against your skin. You can feel your pulse jumping under the skin.

“Randall,” Beth says, voice barely above a whimper, “don’t-,”

“Walk,” he says. “Both of you. Outside.”

You walk outside. You’re not sure if it’s a knife, or a hook, but whatever it is, it feels sharp. Once outside, he forces you both around the side of the barn, then snaps at Beth, “Sit down. Now. I mean it.”

Beth sits down obediently in the long glass, pale face rigid with terror. You, he keeps standing up. 

“Look,” his breath is hot in your ear, and you can feel him behind you, the weight and height of him, how he leans heavily on one leg over the other, “I didn’t want to do this, but you were gonna kill me. It’s okay. You can admit it.” His voice shakes violently.

“We were going to release you,” you say, “in the morning. I swear. We were.”

“She’s telling the truth, Randall,” Beth says, desperately. “We had a vote-,”

“Shut up,” he snaps, then lets out tremulous, almost hysterical laugh. “A vote? Wow. Really? You voted on whether or not to kill me? Am I supposed to thank you?”

“You’re bleeding,” Beth says.

“I cut myself on the glass from the window.”

You close your eyes. You hadn’t even thought it’d be big enough for him to squeeze through, but he’s short and slight, and desperate. He smells like shit, and keeps a hard, bruising grip on your left arm, the metal pushed up against the right side of your throat.

“You kept me locked up like an animal,” he says. “That fucking redneck tried to beat me, and I begged, and begged, and no one would listen. No one. But now you are.”

“You escaped,” you say. “Randall, you’re free. We were going to let you go anyways. Just go. Run. We won’t raise an alarm. We won’t chase you.”

“Right,” he says, furious and spiteful. “How stupid do you think I am? Do you think I’m some kind of retard? I know how this works. I’m screwed. I wouldn’t have been screwed, I got out, but here you are, so now I’m fucked. I was going to take it slow. Nice and easy. I can’t run, after your friends fucked up my leg, can I?”

“Then… then we’ll walk with you to the property line,” Beth says. “And then we’ll walk all the way back, and we won’t tell anyone until tomorrow.”

“No,” he says. “No. That’s not how this is going to go. One of you is going to come with me, and one of you is going to stay here, right, fucking, here, until the sun comes up. And if anyone- I mean anyone- comes after me, I will kill whoever’s with me.”

You can hear him swallow, deep in his throat. “So. Who’s it going to be?”

Beth stares at you, panicked, and you both blurt out, “Me,” at the same time.

Randall snorts humorlessly, then says, “You know, Beth, I always liked you. And my sister liked you.”

“Whitney wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Whitney is dead, you stupid bitch,” he snaps. "My mom ripped her face off in front of me." You can feel blood trickle down your neck.

“I know,” Beth says shakily. “I know, and- and that’s why we came out here, I wanted to give you some pictures of her-,”

Randall pauses, and then shakes his head. You can smell the sweat and grease in his hair. You want to vomit. 

“Well, that was stupid of you, wasn’t it? ‘Cause she’s dead. And I’m alive. And I’m staying that way.”

He says to you, “Walk.”

“Randall, no-,”

“Beth, I swear to God, if you don’t sit right fucking there until sunrise, I will slit her throat. You think I’m kidding around?” he snaps. 

You don’t think he is. Beth looks at you helplessly, then nods, and stays where she is, seated against the side of the barn.

Randall wrenches you away, and the two of you set off into the dark, wet night, mud squelching underfoot. 

“You’re not from around here,” he says, after a minute or two pass without an alarm going up. “Are you?”

“I’m from the suburbs outside Atlanta,” you say. “My name’s Sandra.” Maybe that will make him more hesitant to hurt you, if you feel like a real person to him.

“How old are you?” he says. 

“Almost twenty one.”

“I thought you were younger.”

“Yeah,” you swallow. “I get that. Can you… can you take that away from my throat. I’m not gonna run. Or scream.”

“You might,” he argues, and keeps it there, as the two of you march along, going as fast as you can with him latched onto you and shuffling due to his bad leg. 

You’ve made it a good way down the road when there’s the beam of a flashlight up ahead. Randall swears and pulls you down with him, but it’s too late. A figure rushes towards you; two, out on patrol, and you want to cry with relief. It’s Dale and Glenn.

“I’ll kill her, don’t come any closer,” Randall calls out in warning, pulling you up against him, shaking.

“Let her go,” Glenn says firmly, gun trained on him, but Dale shoots a glance at him, and approaches slowly, empty handed except for his flashlight. 

“Randall,” he says, slowly. “You have to let Sandra go if you want to get out of this alive. Do you understand? Glenn will shoot you.”

“I’ll kill her first.”

“No,” says Glenn, voice hard, “you won’t get the chance.”

“Randall,” says Dale. “Look at me, son. This is not the way. Alright? You can leave. You can leave right now, but you have to let her go. We’ll bring you out onto the road, we’ll even give you food and water first. But you have to let her go.” He’s close enough to reach out and touch you, now.

Randall is stiff and wooden behind you. More blood trickles down your neck, but you barely feel it. Suddenly, he shoves you into Dale, and runs, or tries to. Glenn keeps his gun trained on him, but doesn’t shoot. He trips before he gets too far, and falls. In the distance, there’s shouts and more lights, coming this way. Randall sobs aloud into the dirt. 

“Put the gun down,” Dale says to Glenn, and takes you by the arms. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you gasp. 

He approaches Randall again. “Let me help you up. We can still fix this, Randall. We’re going to let you go. You didn’t hurt anyone. That’s good. Come here-,” he offers Randall a hand; Randall hesitates, then takes, lunging to his feet, and sinking the piece of metal into Dale’s neck. Dale reels back in mute shock, a hand clamped to his throat, and Glenn shouts in horror as Randall takes off running, again. 

This time adrenaline must have kicked in, because he doesn’t stumble or slow, despite his bad leg. Glenn takes a shot, but it misses, which just pushes Randall to run faster. He veers off the road as the sounds of an ATV and motorbike are heard in the distance, and disappears into the dark, as you clutch at Dale, who has sagged to the ground, bleeding profusely. He can’t speak; he stares up at you in confusion, and then his hands slacken in your trembling grip.

“No,” says Glenn, in shock, “no, no- HELP!” he shouts, to the others approaching. “DALE’S HURT, HELP!”

“He’s gone,” you say, letting go of Glenn’s limp hands, and letting them fall against his chest. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, he’s gone-,”

You stagger back up to your feet as Daryl screeches to a halt on his bike, Rick behind him, both shouting questions and shining flashlights at you. Shawn pulls up a moment later on the ATV, Shane behind him and carrying a shotgun. 

He levels it at you; you scream, and then Glenn yanks you out of the way. 

The blast catches Dale in the chest, but he keeps coming, eyes open again, unseeing, jaw moving silently, blood still dripping down his chest, until the next shot takes him in the head.


	8. Chapter 8

JUNE 2012

You watch the sun come up through the windows of Beth’s bedroom, and watch Rick and Shane almost come to blows out front through the fluttering gauzy curtains. Both you and Beth are unharmed from the encounter with Randall - well, aside from the cut on your neck and the bruising on your arm from his clenched grip - but you were immediately shepherded back inside by Andrea and T-Dog after Shane shot Dale, and then he and Rick and Glenn and Shawn went rampaging after Randall.

From the raised voices and clenched fists down below, it’s pretty obvious that six hours later, they still haven’t found him. You watch tensely as Rick and Shane round off on one another yet again. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying to each other, but they circled like dogs, and then Shane shoves Rick when he gets too close. The slighter man stumbles back, swearing, and shouts after Shane, who refuses to come back, storming off again. 

“I don’t care if you hunt him down like an animal!” Rick hollers after him. “But don’t you dare bring Carl into this!”

You don’t know what Shane said about Carl, since Carl has nothing to do with any of this, but that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? Somehow, every argument, every shouting match, every glower between Rick and Shane, all leads back to either Lori, or Carl, or both. They can’t both be Lori’s husband, and they can’t both be Carl’s father. 

It’s stupid, but you suddenly remember your friend Courtney, how she wrote this paper on polyamorous relationships once, making an argument that they would become increasingly common in a world of ever-widening and tolerant sexual mores, that eventually groups of three adults would be able to raise children together, or enter into a legal marriage, whether it was one man and two women, or one woman and two men. 

Your friend Nick said that was a load of bullshit and that no two men in their right mind would ever consent to ‘sharing’ a woman, and that no two women could ever tolerate, in the long-run, vying for the same man’s affections, but maybe she was onto something. You just doubt this group is going to be the case study for it. 

Everything revolves around Rick, Lori, and Shane, because there are no other relationships. Carol’s husband is dead, and so is Dale’s wife. So is Annette. Do Maggie and Glenn even count as a couple, just because they had sex a few times? You hope not, and then you hate yourself for hoping not. A possibly murderous Randall could be roaming the farm, out for revenge, and you’re sitting here feeling sorry for yourself and thinking about love triangles. 

There’s a quiet knock at the door, and Beth slips back into the room. There are dark circles under her eyes, and her blonde hair is pulled back into a frizzing ponytail. 

“Rick wants to talk to you again,” she says, pulling at the sleeves of her denim shirt. It’s cool and rainy today, much like yesterday, and every so often there is the faint rumble of thunder in the distance, a storm gathering, then moving away, then closing in again.

You stand up; you’ve changed out of your pyjamas, at least, and you took a quick shower, as if you could wash the night’s events off your skin and out of your memory. Truth be told, you are angry with Beth; it was her stupid idea to head out there, even though it’s not her fault, or yours, that Randall escaped and ran into you two. But you can’t bring yourself to scowl or snap at her when she looks so broken and guilt-ridden, so you just nod and head downstairs. 

Clementine collides with you in the hall, wrapping her arms around your waist. “You’re okay!” she says, looking up at you eagerly. “They said you were okay, but no one would let me come talk to you!” She’s still chewing her breakfast. “D’you want eggs?”

“Yeah,” you say, adjusting her baseball cap, “but I have to talk to Rick first. Save me some.”

“Okay!” 

You don’t think she knows that Randall’s escaped, judging by her cheeriness; you watch her dart back into the kitchen. 

You proceed into the living room, and find yourself faced with Hershel and Rick, both. Great. 

Steeling yourself, you sit down across from them, on the edge on an old leather armchair. 

“How are you feeling?” Hershel asks; you’re surprised by the grave concern in his tone. 

It’s not that you think he doesn’t care for you at all, but you’re not family, and you wouldn’t expect him to extend that sort of paternal protectiveness to you. Your dad isn’t here. You really wish he was, but he’s not. He would take care of things. You wouldn’t have to worry about it. But he’s not here. 

Rick is still a little red in the face from his shouting match with Shane, but summons up a small smile that is probably meant to reassure you that he’s not angry with you.

“I-,” he glances at Hershel, “we just wanted to hear what happened last night, one more time. We’re going to start searching properly now that it’s light out, and last night… well. Things were moving fast. So, Sandra, if you could just tell Hershel and me what happened…” 

He’s putting on his cop voice, you realize, crisp and professional. You’d almost rather Shane’s brusque interrogation or Daryl’s snide comments, but then you think about the hair trigger tempers that accompany them, and reconsider. 

“I woke up and I saw Beth trying to sneak out,” you say, slipping into a dull, fatigued recollection. “She tried to tell me she was just going to use the bathroom, but she had her jacket and shoes on, so I knew she was trying to go outside. I asked her what she was doing, and she said she wanted to give Randall some… some old pictures of his sister and mom she’d found. Because she knew were going to release him in the morning.”

“I told her to just give them to you… or to Shane… but she didn’t think you’d actually give them to him. I should have stopped her from leaving, but she said we could just slide them under the storeroom door, so I thought it would be safe enough. I took a shovel from the porch, just in case we ran into that walker that was in the swamp.”

You swallow. “We got to the barn and we pushed the pictures under the door, and then- Randall was there, hiding, I guess, he’d broken the window and gotten out, and he had some… some piece of metal. He snuck up on us, and made me drop the shovel and walked us outside.”

“It was part of a screwdriver,” Rick says. “That’s what Dale was stabbed with.”

“Oh,” you say. “But I don’t… was Dale sick? Did he get bit, before? Because… he came back.”

Hershel says nothing, his dark eyes narrowed, and Rick looks down for a moment, as if to compose himself, then says, “We’re not sure. But go on, Sandra.”

“We got outside, and we tried to convince him he was going to be released anyways, but he didn’t believe us, he said he knew we were going to kill him, and… he said he’d have to take one of us with him, as a hostage, I guess, to make sure the other didn’t raise the alarm.” 

You pause, then say, “So he took me, and we left Beth there, and started walking. I tried to convince him to just let me go, and that we wouldn’t tell anyone he was gone until morning, but he wouldn’t. And we just walked, and walked, and then we ran into Dale and Glenn… I guess they were out patrolling?”

“That was Rick’s idea,” Hershel concedes gruffly. “And I’m very glad they were there. Lord knows what might have happened to you… or to my Beth, otherwise.”

“Then what happened?” Rick presses, not taking his gaze off you.

“He tried to hide with me, but of course they saw us… Glenn had his gun on Randall, by then, but Dale was trying to talk him down… he let me go, pushed me into Dale, and tried to run, but he fell, and sort of… broke down crying. So Dale went over to help him, I guess figuring he wasn’t really… dangerous, just scared, and Randall stabbed him, and then ran again, and Glenn tried to shoot him but it was too dark, and then Dale…” You close your eyes at the memory. “He bled out so fast.”

“It was quick,” Hershel says. “He wouldn’t have suffered long.”

“And then you were there,” you tell Rick.

He nods after a moment, resolute. “Thank you.”

You look anxiously at Hershel. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop Beth, I know- I know I’m older, I should have known better-,”

He holds up a weathered hand. “If you hadn’t woken up in the first place, and gone with her, she would have run into that boy alone. And he might have just killed her then and there. Or worse.” His gaze is hard, but not directed at you. “If I owe you anything, it’s my thanks, Sandra.”

You look down, abashed, but Rick says, “You stayed calm and you got out of it alive. That’s what important. People twice your age might have panicked, in that situation. Don’t blame yourself.” He clears his throat. “But Randall is dangerous, even with a bad leg. He can’t have gotten that far on it, and if he’s still hiding somewhere on the property, he’s a ticking bomb waiting to go off. We need to find him, the sooner the better.” His tone sours. “Dead or alive.”

Hershel raises no objections now.

You don’t say anything; Rick stands, the conversation over. “Get something to eat and some sleep,” he tells you, in an almost fatherly way. “You’re probably dead on your feet, after the night you had. We’ll take it from here.”

Like you took the search for Sophia? But that’s not fair. 

You watch him go, then turn back to Hershel. “I’ll be joining in the search,” he says, gruffly. “I want you… well, I want you and the rest- you know, the girls, and Patricia, and you, to stay here. In the house. The chores can wait. It’s not safe for any of you to be wandering out alone with that boy on the loose.”

You nod; you have no problem with house arrest. The wind’s picked up outside, rattling at the windows. 

“I’ve decided,” Hershel says, abruptly, “well - I’ve told the others already, might as well tell you - that Rick’s group can stay. Through the summer, at least. Assuming we don’t have any problems from them, we’ll talk about them hanging around for the winter.”

You know the shock must show on your face; he sighs heavily. “It’s not… well, none of this is what I wanted, but - I was misguided, and I’m man enough to admit, I think, at my age Lord you knows have to be. We can’t do this on our own. We need people here. To help with the workload, bring in the harvest, and keep us safe. It can’t just be Shawn out there, or Maggie and you running around on horseback, I… I’ve been waiting for things to go back to normal. And it ain’t happening anytime soon. And I don’t want to lose anyone because I was too pigheaded to accept that.”

Tentatively, you say, “I… I think you’re right, Hershel.”

He smiles thinly. “I know. I’m always right. Ah, well. Do I trust all of them? No. But Rick’s a good man, and I’ve got hope he can keep the rest in line.”

You wonder if you should bring up Shane, then decide against it. It’s not worth stirring the pot anymore at the moment. Things between him and Rick could blow over after the Randall matter is settled, or at least mellow out. But what about Lori?

As if he’d read your mind, Hershel says, in a low tone, “And I… I know that Rick’s wife is expecting.”

You try to look surprised.

“He told me as much the other day,” Hershel says. “I can’t in good conscience… well, you know. It’ll be rough, but we’ve got to try our best to just take it day by day.”

“Yeah,” you say, quietly. 

He waves a hand at you. “Well, go on, get your breakfast.”

Inside the kitchen, which seems deceptively bright and cheery in contrast to the overcast weather outside, you get a full plate of eggs and baked beans, which you shovel into your mouth while Clementine draws on some loose paper with an old collection of colored pencils. Maggie is out on the back porch slurping her coffee; she comes in when she sees you eating, and embraces you with one arm, tucking your head against her chest. You breathe in her coffee - flannel - deodorant scent for a few moments. 

“Thank God you’re okay,” is all she says, hoarsely.

She hugs Beth when she comes down a few minutes later, too, and you try not to read into it. What if she just sees you as a sister? How could you ruin that? She’ll think you’re perverted, some kind of freak, pretending at friendship so you could be close to her. 

You’ve never even… well, you’ve never felt this way about anyone, really, and though you’ve kissed people and almost had sex with one or two of them, it never felt… It just felt like something you were doing, just because. There was no real passion behind it on your part. And those were all guys. 

So you don’t really know what to think, what to do. And you can’t talk to anyone else about it; Beth would tell Maggie in an instant, and Clementine’s just a little kid. You still barely know the camper women. And somehow you doubt any of them would have much investment in what they probably would see as some teenaged melodrama, even though you’re two years past a teenager. Or, almost. 

“What day is it?” you ask aloud, after you finish your eggs. Beth is listlessly eating her oatmeal. “Like, of the month?”

“The twenty second,” Patricia says, after a moment, blinking at you.

“Oh. My birthday’s in a couple days,” you say, reflexively, then grimace; other people’s birthdays have probably past, too, and you don’t see them making a fuss over it.

“We have to do a cake,” Maggie says, smiling forcibly. “Right, Patricia? Sandra deserves one.”

“Can it be chocolate?” Clementine asks. “Can it be chocolate mousse? That’s my favorite.”

“Yeah?” Maggie smirks at her more genuinely. “And when is your birthday, miss?”

“November 16th,” she says automatically. “It’s five days after Carl’s! Isn’t that weird?”

“You’re both fall babies,” you say. “That’s cute.”

“It’s not cute, it’s cool!” 

But she goes back to her drawing. 

“We’ll do some lessons today,” Beth tells her, looking serious. “We’ve- well, I’ve been slacking off.” She flushes. “We need to get back into them.”

“But it’s summer,” Clementine complains.

“Summer doesn’t count when you only have two hours of school a day,” Beth says. “Well. Barely an hour, most days.”

Maggie puts her empty cup in the sink. “Hey, we can all help you today, Clem. We’re staying inside ‘cause of the rain.”

Clementine looks around your faces, suspicious, but seemingly decides not to push her luck, maybe because of all the trouble she got into yesterday, wandering off with Carl like that. Either way, she doesn’t raise as much of a fuss as she could have, to your relief. It makes you feel like less of a failure. 

Within the hour, some of the campers filter into the house without protest, which seems proof enough that Hershel and Rick have finalized some kind of peace treaty. Lori sits Carl down right next to Clementine and eagerly accepts Beth’s offer to give him some reading to do, ignoring his sullen scowl. Carol flits around, anxious to be of help to Patricia in whatever way possible. 

“The rest are all out searching for the boy,” Lori confides in you, stepping out onto the back porch to watch the rain sleeting down. “They’re going in shifts around the property and the woods, Rick said…” she trails off, biting her lower lip, and gripping her one wrist tight enough to bruise herself. You feel a brief swell of sympathy for her; you don’t know what you’d do in her position. Just want to die, probably. 

“They’ll find him,” you say, instead, unconsciously touching at the shallow cut on your neck, hidden under a cheap bandaid. “He can’t have gone far, with his leg fucked up and the weather like this…”

She nods, then confesses, after a few moments. “I’m dying for a cigarette. Isn’t that terrible? I haven’t smoked since before I had Carl.” She seems about to say more, than doesn’t, maybe considering whether or not you know about the baby. 

“I guess you and Rick have been together for a long time, then,” you say, instead.

She smiles thinly. “Oh, way back. God… we met right after I’d graduated from college. He was just starting as a trooper, and I was working for a newspaper, helping the editors.” She pauses, then admits, “We’d only been together, hell, I don’t know… six months, when I found out I was pregnant? Seemed like ages and ages then. But I guess it wasn’t so long after all, looking back. Got married- my parents would have killed us if we’d waited until after the baby, and then we had Carl.” 

Her voice gets slightly huskier. “I don’t regret that. At all. But… you have to wonder, I guess, when you get to my age, how things might have gone… in another life.”

She can’t be that old; thirty five at the most, you’d bet. But of course you’re not going to comment on a lady’s age. 

“Carl’s a good kid,” you say. “I know… Clementine really looks up to him. She thinks he’s super smart.”

Lori smiles fondly. “He is, he’s… he’s always been so sweet, I just… I hate that this is his life, now. He deserves better than this.” Her expression crumples slightly. “Sophia deserved better than this. I can’t even look Carol in the eyes anymore, most days, knowing that… that could have been me.”

You don’t know what to say to that; you can’t imagine Carol’s pain, the agony she must be in, even if she puts on a brave face. “Well, it’s good she has all of you, to be there for her.”

Lori nods, then admits, “Dale was the best of us. I mean- he always knew what to say, how to calm everyone down, how to comfort… no one was a stranger, to him.” She swallows hard. “I’m going to miss him.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, though you don’t feel that she’s blaming you. 

She glances over at you, and blinks. “Don’t be. You… you shouldn’t be in this position either. Any of you. Sorry. You’re all kids to me, you and Glenn, and the Greene girls… I just wish any of us knew what to do.” She chuckles mirthlessly. “But most days I feel like we’re just making it up as we go.”

The back door clatters open; Maggie sticks her head out to tell you that Patricia’s making some stew, given the weather. You and Lori head back indoors; the wind is kicking up again, anyways. 

The house feels unusually full and noisy with more people in it, even with the absences of Hershel and Shawn and all the others, and you try to lose yourself in the sounds and smells and feeling of being part of a big group again, a crowd. Clementine and Carl finish their work, eat like wild animals, and trudge upstairs to find something to play with; Patricia hints at some old toys in the attic. 

You and the other women take longer with your meals, even as the wind continues to moan and howl outside, and the rain becomes sleeting. The rumble of thunder grows closer and more frequent. 

Daryl and Andrea come in soaked to the skin, with dismal news; the weather is only worsening and there’s no sign of Randall. Andrea has no appetite and goes upstairs to shower, face as thunderous as the weather; you remember how close she and Dale were. Daryl drinks his stew straight from the bowl like a little kid, rather than spooning it into his mouth, and predicts the search will soon be called off.

“The little bastard’s not in any of the buildings on the property,” he says, shaking his head. “So unless he’s down the fucking well or dug himself a hole, I don’t see where else he could be. Chances are, he made it into the woods, and he’s dead already, or wishing he was, limping around in the muck with walkers on his tail.”

That’s not as reassuring as it should be, though; Hershel comes back with T-Dog a little while later, but as the afternoon ticks away, there is no sign of Shawn, Glenn, Rick, or Shane. 

“Great,” says Maggie. “Another search party for the search party.”

But you can tell she’s itching to go out, all the same. Hershel forbids it, of course, but when has that ever stopped her? 

And you’re antsy too; you know you should be terrified and shaken; another human being almost murdered you last night, not a walker. But sitting around the house listening to everyone fret, worry, and argue, isn’t much of a comfort. And you do still feel responsible, ridiculous as it sounds. You had a shovel, before Randall got the drop on you. 

He was weak and injured; you should have at least been able to put up a fight, if not manage to overpower him. You’re not some frail waif; months of working all day doing hard manual labor have given you thin cords of muscle in your arms and legs, and he wasn’t much taller than you. 

“I’m going to check town one more time, before it gets any worse out there,” Daryl decides. “They might have gone that far looking for him, and are holed up in one of the buildings.”

T-Dog tries to talk him out of it, arguing that you’re all better off staying put, but he shrugs him off, heading for his motorbike. You hope he doesn’t get stuck in the mud.

Lori is sitting on the steps, looking queasy. You’re not sure if it’s morning sickness, or fear for Rick. And Shane. For their safety, or for what they might do to each other? 

Maggie catches your eye, and draws you by the elbow into the empty dining room, lowering her voice. “None of them took out the horses yet today,” she says. “All I’m saying is, we do a loop around the property. That’s it. We might see something. They should be back by now, Shawn especially. He wouldn’t have gotten turned around or lost, no matter the weather.”

You glance into the living room, and realize that Hershel is praying with Carol for the safe return of the searchers. 

“Alright,” you say. “But you gotta at least tell Patricia, or someone, that we’re going out.”

“I will,” she says. “Quick now. We’ll both take guns.”

“I’m a lousy shot,” you mutter.

She shoots you a hollow smile. “Then you can be my spotter. Like last time.”

You poke your head into the attic a few minutes later to find Carl and Clementine messing around with some old electronics; a battery powered train set and an electric lantern. Carl rushes downstairs when he hears that his father still isn’t back yet, while Clementine says, almost oddly maturely, you think, “Maybe I shouldn’t have given Lee that other walkie talkie. Then you could take it with you.”

“I’ll be back soon,” you say. It doesn’t feel like a lie; you’ve always come back, all your near misses these past two weeks or so aside. “Listen, if someone- if anything happens while I’m gone, hide up here, okay?” You nod to the trap door leading down into the second floor of the house. “Just pull up the ladder as fast as you can and stay really quiet. If you hear people fighting, or… or screaming, just stay up here.”

She nods solemnly, then adds, with a tremulous edge, “I’m sorry Carl and I teased that walker the other day. Is that… is that what everyone’s looking for?”

“No,” you say, “we’re looking for Randall. He… he killed Dale.”

Her eyes go wide, but she doesn’t cry, not that you’d expected her to. She only interacted with the man a few times, though he was always kind. 

You can hear voices downstairs; you smile reassuringly at Clementine, and clamber back down the ladder. 

“Maggie!” Hershel shouts as you and her dart out into the storm, waterproof jackets and boots on, a rifle slung across her back and a field hockey stick in yours. But his voice and any others are quickly lost to the wind and rain.

The stables are damp but empty, though you keep careful watch as you and her saddle Major and Wes, then set off at a fast trot. You don’t dare go any faster than that, not wanting either horse to turn a leg in the mud, but you make for the fenceline, rather than wasting time going around the trails on the farm itself, already picked over by the others. 

For the first half hour, there’s nothing but the rain pouring down and the steady increase of thunder in the distance as you patrol the outskirts of the farm, heading southeast along the treeline, until Maggie spots something; some trampled over bushes, as if people had pushed through them. 

“That could be from anyone,” you say, but she’s already hopping out of the saddle to try to examine the tracks in the mud.

“Those aren’t Shawn’s bootprints,” she says in dismay, as the two of you peer into the woods together, but then you hear an undeniable crack of a gunshot. 

Maggie pulls her rifle, and you wait for a moment, but no one emerges from the brush. You push forward into the forest, and gradually two shapes become prominent through the trees and vines. 

The first shape is Rick, soaked to the skin, slumped over, sobbing, gun in hand. 

The second shape is Shane, dead, with a bullet hole in his forehead, and a knife stuck in his chest. 

Rick hears the crunch of twigs underfoot and looks up wildly. Maggie draws on him, unflinching, stepping in front of you. “Drop the gun,” she says. 

He raises his other hand in surrender. “It was- he tried to kill me,” he says, hoarsely. He really is crying, not faking it, tears streaming down his blood-spattered face. “He drew on me first.”

“Right now I don’t give a shit,” Maggie says. “Drop the damn gun, Rick.”

He sets the pistol down in the mud, and slowly staggers to his feet. His left side is soaked through with blood, you note with dismay, and you don’t think it’s all Shane’s.

“You stab him or shoot him first?” Maggie demands of Rick. “Did he get bit?”

“I stabbed him,” Rick says, hollow-faced, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s saying. His voice dies away under the pounding of the rain on the trees. “I stabbed him…”

“We have to get him back to the farm,” you tell Maggie. The thunder is ever louder now. “We’ll figure it out from there, he’s hurt.”

After a moment, she nods, and waves Rick forward. You tense as he approaches, slowly, limping, but he doesn’t make any sudden lunges at either of you, though he could probably stand a decent chance of wrestling the rifle away from Maggie, even as injured as he is. 

The three of you cautiously walk back up to the road, slipping and stumbling in the mud as you and Maggie help Rick stumble along. He’s not bitten; the wound on his side is clearly from a knife, but that doesn’t help matters much. He’s very pale, shaking with adrenaline, and you’re not sure how much blood he’s lost. The horses are anxious where you left them, ears flattening every time the wind picks back up.

“You can ride behind me,” you’re telling Rick, hoping you can actually get him on the horse, as he holds his side in agony, when all three of you whirl at the approaching sound of a bike. 

It’s Daryl, shouting something, though you can’t hear him over the wind until he’s close. He’s soaked to the skin, rivulets of water running down his face, and his eyes are wild. 

“Get back in the woods!” he shouts. “Take those fucking horses, now, and get back behind the trees!”

“What’s going on?” Rick demands, coming a little back to himself. 

“Randall’s friends, are what’s going on,” Daryl snaps, cutting the engine to his bike and hopping off it. “They’ve got a whole fucking convoy, barreling this way. Shawn and Glenn must have had a run-in with them- I saw Glenn in one of their trucks.”

“What about Shawn?” Maggie asks in alarm, as you hastily lead the reluctant horses off the road and back into the brush. 

“How many trucks?” Rick asks at the same time.

“Didn’t see your brother,” Daryl is shaking his head, sending droplets of water everywhere like a wet dog. “They had two. All men, most armed, from what I can tell. They were coming out of town when I heard them on the road. Hid until they passed by, then circled back. Didn’t see Randall with them, either.”

“It’s been a week,” Maggie has to almost shout to be heard over the dull rush of the rain and wind in the trees. “Why would they show up now?”

Daryl is grim. “No fucking idea.”

He is even grimmer when he sees Shane’s body, though he doesn’t look shocked, or much grieved. “The hell happened here?”

“Rick says Shane snapped and tried to kill him,” Maggie mutters.

Rick runs a hand through his wet hair. “I’m telling the truth. He… we were arguing, and I think he- he blamed me for what happened with Randall, and Dale, and-,”

“Quiet,” you snap, hearing the distant sound of motors. All of you hunker down, flattening yourself as much as possible in the underbrush. You’re all wearing dull, neutral colors, so you’re not worry about being instantly spotted through the tree line, but if they stop on the road and have a look around, chances are you’ll be seen sooner or later, or they’ll hear the horses’ nervous whinnies. 

Luckily (or not), the trucks speed past, almost as if they’re anticipating road blocks or an ambush. They only pick up speed as they barrel down the muddy road leading straight to the farm, and you emerge from the trees once they’re well past you, staring after them. 

“We have to stop them,” Maggie says hoarsely. “They- we have to stop them!”

She rushes towards Wes, but Daryl grabs her arm, pulling her up short.

“Let go of me!” she snaps, trying to wrench out of his grip. 

“Listen,” he says, keeping a firm hold on her. “Listen! We need to think this through. You can’t just go charging up after them. We’re not numbered and outgunned. There’s at least six of them, and there’s four of us. Rick’s hurt,” he glances over at Rick, who is now slightly bent over in pain, still trying to staunch the flow of blood, “And the rest of us have three guns between us. Sandra can’t shoot-,” It stings, even though it’s true, “And you’re like a fucking livewire. You want to get your whole family killed?”

Maggie finally succeeds in wrenching away from Daryl, but doesn’t take a swing at him, to your relief, though her green eyes are flashing with fury. “Then what do you propose we do?” she hisses. 

“They don’t know where we are, who we are, or where we’re coming from,” Daryl says. “And we’ve got horses, we don’t have to stay on the road. I say we cut across the field, make for the RV. They’ll be focused on the house, rounding people up, and they’re not gonna want to hang around outside, in this weather.”

You think this is the most you’ve ever heard Daryl say, altogether, and you’re not sure whether to be impressed or baffled by how quickly he’s taken control of the situation. All the same, his confidence- or faked confidence- is catching; Maggie seems to calm a bit, and you can feel your own heartbeat slowing, no longer on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Rick groans quietly under his breath, but nods in approval. 

You pull off your jacket and hand it to him. “Here, try to tie this around your side,” you tell him. “We have to stop the bleeding.”

He smiles weakly, but lets you help him knot it diagonally across his chest, tying off the sleeves. You can’t tell if it’s really taut enough against the wound to help, but it’s better than nothing. 

“I’ll leave the bike here,” Daryl says. “It’s not gonna get much further on these washed out roads, anyways.”

Maggie helps him drag it under a tree and cover it with some branches to at least try to conceal it, in case more people are coming this way, while you help Rick up onto Major. He looks a little better in the saddle, able to clutch the reins and sit up straight, but you can feel him still trembling as you clamber up behind him, praying he doesn’t topple off the horse and hit his head on a rock. 

Maggie and Daryl do likewise on Wes, and the four of you set off, avoiding the road entirely and cutting across the fields via a padlocked gate- by now you know Maggie and Shawn always keep the keys on them. There’s no cover in the field, but you don’t see anyone on the horizon either; it seems like the trucks made straight for the farmhouse, as Daryl predicted. 

You don’t dare push Wes into a gallop, but keep him at a quick trot, hoping he doesn’t turn a leg in a gopher hole or lose a shoe. You heart starts to pound again as you make out the RV in the distance, and then the trucks parked near it, and Daryl has all of you dismount once you’re close enough. It’s obvious no one’s noticed your approach; in fact, you can only make out two figures outside, both huddled on the porch of the house, smoking. 

On foot, you approach the RV, and get within its shadow, covered behind it, and momentarily shielded from the downpour by the overhang. The rain covers the sound of your murmurs as well. 

“Alright,” says Daryl, drawing his crossbow, as Maggie adjusts her grip on her gun nervously. “Rick, you stay here. I’ll take the two on the porch. No guns yet, they’ll hear the shots. We need to get them further away from the house.”

“I’ll do it,” you say, surprising yourself.

“Sandra, no-,” Maggie starts, grabbing your hand, but you tug away. 

“It’s like you said, I’m a lousy shot, and if I’m not much use with a gun, at least I can do this.”

“They could kill you!”

“They won’t,” you say, wishing you believed it. Your insides have turned to jelly, but you can’t back down now, not after you’ve said it aloud. “I just look like a scared kid. Not a threat.”

Daryl looks at you with something that might be close to begrudging respect. “I got your back,” he says. 

You don’t even know what that means, coming from him, but you nod anyways, and stand up. 

Maggie opens her mouth to protest it, then clamps it shut as you hear muffled voices carried on the wind-

“Told you this was-,”

“-Don’t see why we can’t go inside-,”

Trying not to think very hard about what you’re doing, you walk around the side of the RV and break it into an awkward, hobbling jog, as if you’re injured, approaching the front porch.

“STOP!” someone shouts, so you do. 

You stand there, perfectly still except for your shaking hands, as the two men come down from the porch. They look surprised to see you, and both have their guns raised, but they seem to relax when they see you bedraggled appearance and obvious lack of a weapon. 

“Who are you?” One demands. It’s hard to make out the features in the rain, but they’re both white, and the one addressing you sounds like he’s in his thirties. 

“I’m Sandra,” you say, and have to repeat yourself when it’s obvious they haven’t heard you. “I’m Sandra, I live here-,”

They exchange glances, then the other says, “You ain’t one of the Greene girls.” He sounds younger, closer to your own age.

“I’m their friend,” you try to sound pathetic, and terrified, which isn’t far from the truth. “I- who are you? What are you doing here? We were out- we were out looking for people-,”

“For Randall?” The one who sounds older gives a bitter chuckle. “Yeah. Your boy Shawn told us, him and the chink.”

Well, that doesn’t sound good. 

“I- We let Randall go, I don’t know-,”

“Save it,” he snaps. “Come here. Brian’s sat everyone down for a little get together inside.”

Who the fuck is Brian? Then you remember. Randall said he was their leader, of the daycare group. Or maybe it was Jimmy. Or those brothers. Does it matter? They’re here now.

You stumble towards them. “I can’t- I hurt my ankle, I think it might be broken, can you-,”

“Wait,” the older man says, as the younger starts towards you, “Eric, wait, you don’t know if she’s got a knife-,”

A crossbow bolt buries itself in Eric’s chest. He stares down at it, then begins to topple. The older man gasps, and then as you dart away, anticipating a gunshot, another bolt catches him in the shoulder. He drops his gun and staggers, starting to yell, but then Daryl is right there, it seems like in the blink of an eye, with Maggie, and the next bolt hits him in the throat and takes away his voice. 

The only other person you’ve ever seen killed in front of you was Dale. Now it’s three. The sight of their bodies, still bleeding out, doesn’t even shock you right now. You just saw Shane’s corpse. Before that, Dale’s. Before that-

“Come on, help me move ‘em,” Daryl is snapping. 

Between the three of you, you manage to drag the two bodies behind the RV; the slick and wet ground helps things go faster. Rick is still there, clutching his gun, but he jerks away as you leave the bodies beside him. 

“Wait,” he says hoarsely, “wait, you have to shoot them in the head-,”

“What are you talking about?” Maggie demands, looking in disgust at the blood on her hands, as you wipe yours off on your jeans.

“Shoot them, or they’ll turn!” he all but shouts. 

Daryl doesn’t hesitate, even as you and Maggie stare incredulously at Rick. He puts two bolts in their heads, one after another, in seconds. 

“How do you know they were bit?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at Rick, after he’s finished. He’s prying bolts out of them even as he speaks. Waste not, want not, you think, and restrain a hysterical giggle.

“They weren’t,” Rick says. “They would have turned anyways. Shane did. And he was never bit.”

That goes over like a bucket of icy water, even as you shiver in the rain.

“What- what do you mean?” Maggie asks in disbelief. “Are you- he was sick?”

Rick closes his eyes, from pain or denial, and says, “We’re all sick. At the CDC, the doctor- he told me as much, before he blew himself up. We’re all infected. Everyone who dies- no matter how you die, you come back as one of them. As a walker.”

You feel bile creeping up your throat, and turn away from him in the corpses, fighting against your stomach. No, he has to be wrong. How can that- you’re not sick. No one here is sick. That can’t be right, that can’t-,”

“You knew, all this time, and you didn’t think to tell us?” Daryl asks in muffled rage. 

You turn back around. Maggie has a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, looking as if she wants to vomit herself. 

Rick just shakes his head. “I- I almost did, a hundred times, but I didn’t believe it myself at first, I didn’t… didn’t want it to be true, I- I was hoping it wasn’t. But I know, now. I killed Shane. He came back. In under a few minutes. Didn’t even go cold. You have to tell everyone. All of them, Daryl. They have to know.”

“They should have- we all should have known from the moment we got out of the fuckin’ CDC!” Daryl says furiously. “What the- what the hell were you thinkin’, keeping this to yourself? Are you some kind of martyr? Why the fuck wouldn’t you have told us?”

“I thought- if we all still had hope, I thought-,”

“We don’t have time for this,” Maggie cuts in, sharply. “We have to save my family. And the others.” 

Daryl curses under his breath, but nods. “Fine. Grimes- just stay here,” he says. 

You glance down at Rick’s grip on the pistol in his lap, which is white-knuckled. 

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he replies, voice barely above a mutter. “Daryl- You don’t owe me anything. But- try to save Lori and Carl. If you can. Please.”

“For fuck’s sake, what am I, fucking Superman?” Daryl growls, but doesn’t refuse him. “Stay here. I mean it, Rick. And- and don’t fuckin’ die on me.”

The three of you cautiously peek out from behind the RV. No one else has come out of the house; it seems like you’re still unnoticed, for now, but it’s only a matter of time before those inside realize their guards are gone.

“Back door,” Maggie says. “We have to get around back.”

“Alright.” The three of you edge out from behind the RV, then break into a dead run, keeping as low to the ground as possible, around the side of the house. 

You’re all but crawling on the muddy ground once you reach the back, careful to stay well below the windows, but Daryl gestures you all forward until you’re practically on the porch, the swing creaking wetly in the wind. Thunder rumbles again, loudly, overhead, and lightning flickers in the distance, but you can hear a steady flow of conversation through the kitchen when it lightens up again. 

“Now, don’t get me wrong,” a man is saying. “I don’t give a fuck where Randall is. I don’t give a fuck what you did or did not do to him. But it’s come to our attention that y’all haven’t exactly been sharing the fruits of thy bounty, and all that shit. This farm could feed dozens, and y’all just wanna sit on that?”

“We don’t want any trouble,” someone else is saying. Maybe Carol? “We can work something out, I’m sure we can-,”

“Oh, we will,” another voice cuts in. “But I think you're really due for a change in leadership ‘round here. Trust me, we are not your enemies. There’s much bigger and badder forces out there in the world. Whole herds of walkers roaming around. Militias. Crazy ass cults. But you have had to deal with that shit, tucked away up here. Can’t blame us for wanting in on a piece of the pie.”

You inch closer to the screen door, and for a moment have a clear line of sight. It looks like they’ve gathered everyone in the dining room adjoining the kitchen. Most of the men’s backs are to you, but you count at least four strangers, and you see T-Dog, his back against the wall, an arm wrapped protectively around Carol, who is pale as a ghost. You spot Andrea, as well; bleeding from a cut on her swollen cheek, her blonde hair in disarray, and someone slumped in a chair, as if unconscious- Glenn, maybe? 

Then one of the men shifts as if he might turn around, and you pull back.

You hold up four fingers to Daryl and Maggie. 

“Run,” he mouths.

You look at him blankly, but Maggie grabs you by the arm, yanks you backwards off the porch, and the two of you go running towards the other side of the house.

He stands up, levels his crossbow, and fires directly at the kitchen window. It shatters instantly in a spray of glass, and all hell breaks loose inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually hate these last three chapters, because I couldn't figure out to handle the final conflict of the story. I didn't want to have a walker herd attack the farm like in canon; that seemed really forced. But it also felt like the Shane versus Rick showdown couldn't actually take up that much space, because inevitably if it came to a public fight to the death, most people on the farm would probably side with Rick, so that would be over quickly. 
> 
> And then I also felt like it was weird that in Season 1, we never hear anything more about Randall's group; I guess it's a convenient fake-out in that sense. Ultimately I decided there needed to be some outside human threat to force the survivors to band together once and for all, but I'm still not thrilled about how I wrote it.


	9. Chapter 9

“Get to the tree!” Maggie shouts in your ear, pushing you forward across the muddy ground. \

A knife of cramping pain lances up your side, and you run, raggedly for the great oak tree in front of the farmhouse, where a tire swung once hung that Clementine would play on, before the rope finally frayed and snapped. 

Shawn kept saying he would replace it. Is he dead? 

You hear gunshots; one muffled, from the inside the house, along with a dull roar of shouts and screams, and others much closer. 

As you reach the tree and hide behind the broad trunk, you stand ramrod against it, panting and sobbing aloud, convinced this was all a terrible mistake and now you’re all about to die for it. 

What was Daryl thinking? But you can’t think of anything else he could or should have done. They would have realized the guards were dead and been instantly on guard, even if you lured more outside. Maybe his distraction gave the others indoors a chance to fight back. 

You think of Clementine and Carl, up in the attic. Are they still there, or held captive downstairs with the others? You pray she stayed put, your throat so tight you can’t even swallow. 

When you do chance a glance around the trunk, Maggie is jogging towards you, gun in hand; a man is slumped over dead on the porch, but another is bursting out now, screaming. 

Maggie yelps and stumbles; you scream, thinking she’s been hit, and then realize she was ducking as another shot echoes in your ringing ears. 

You look around wildly; you don’t see Daryl- is he still on the other side of the house?- then realize it’s Rick, shooting from behind the RV. The second man on the porch falls back against the doorframe, clutching at his belly, and you watch in mute horror as red spreads there, dripping past his grasping hands. 

Daryl comes loping around the side of the house like a dog on the run, crossbow in hand and clearly out of bolts, one of the other men shooting after him. Four, you think, there were four inside, and now two are down, so there’s this one, and someone else. There’s someone else-

“HEY!” Maggie moves out from behind the tree, and fires at the bearded man pursuing Daryl. 

Her first shot misses, but he slows, letting Daryl get away until he reaches the well and dives behind it for cover, cursing. 

You drop down onto your haunches with a shriek as a bullet from the bearded man lodges itself in the tree trunk, sending splinters shooting into the air with a dry crack as loud as lightning. 

“Kill him!” you snap at Maggie as she fires again.

“Trying!” 

The bearded man is still firing, until he realizes Rick is also shooting from behind the RV. Shouting, he retreats around the corner of house, where he’s no longer clearly visible. 

A man drags a kicking and screaming Beth out onto the front porch, and fires into the air. 

“ENOUGH!” he roars, loud enough to be heard over the rain and thunder. “KEEP SHOOTING, AND I’LL KILL HER!”

“Beth!” Maggie shouts, but lowers her gun immediately, helpless. 

Beth looks unhurt but is struggling fiercely against the man’s arm, locked across her middle and pinning her body to his. 

As he stumbles down the steps, you see he’s hurt, though not from a gunshot; his temple is oozing blood, as if he’d been hit from behind with something. You hear more shouts and cries from inside the house, and then Hershel appears in the doorway, grim-faced and clutching an iron poker, along with Andrea, gripping a pistol, pointed at the man holding Beth. 

She doesn’t fire, to your relief. 

“Lower your guns, all of you!” the man shouts. “I’ll fucking kill her, I will!”

Beth kicks him hard in the shins, but he ignores her, his gun pressed almost to her temple. 

You look back in the direction of the RV. Rick has army-crawled underneath it, but isn’t shooting, while Daryl peeks from behind the wet stones of the well, glaring but also motionless. 

The other man comes back around the side of the house to back his friend up, looking visibly relieved. 

“Jason!” he yells. “We need to go!”

They might have plenty of guns in their trucks, but if they don’t have the men to use them, they’re fucked. Their only hope is to be able to get to their vehicles and drive out of here, but they can’t do that while pursued. 

It’s the same thing Randall tried. You think of Dale, and feel sick. That can’t happen to Beth. It can’t.

“Let her go!” Maggie yells at the man. “Let her go, and you can leave!”

Jason ignores her. “We’re going to the trucks!” he shouts, straining to be heard as the wind picks up again. “If anyone shoots at us, she dies! I’ll let her go once we’ve got one started.”

You don’t believe that for an instant. He’ll probably force Beth to come with him, trusting they won’t be chased after so long as she’s with them, and they’re not going to just pull over and let her hop out once they reach the main road. 

They’ll either kill her once they no longer need a hostage, or they’ll take her with them, and you’re not sure which would be worse, based off Randall’s stories. 

You watch as Jason begins to retreat, dragging Beth backwards with him as he starts towards the trucks, his friend covering him. Hershel and Andrea come down the steps, arguing- it seems like Andrea wants to take her chances and try to shoot them anyways- and you spot a white-faced Carol and a haggard T-Dog behind them- and Daryl stands up from behind the well, tossing his crossbow aside as if he’s considering just charging at them.

Then Beth screams.

“No!” Maggie shrieks, thinking Jason must have fired, but there’s no gunshot. 

You squint in the direction of the trucks, then realize something’s moving around one of them. 

No. Someones. 

Two walkers come stumbling out towards Jason and his friend. He swears and immediately retreats back towards the house, while Beth manages to wrench away from him, and runs towards her father. 

His friend shoots at one of the walkers, then panics as it lunges- as Randall lunges- at him, slipping in the mud and trying to scramble away, before Randall is on top of him. He starts to scream and shout, but no one pays him any mind, as the other walker joins in, attracted by his sharp cries of pain and terror. 

Jason catches Beth by the arm, even as Andrea fires at him, the bullet grazing his shoulder. 

There’s a creaking sound, and the attic window slides open. 

You step out from behind the tree with Maggie, feeling like you’re staring into an absurd painting, an insane landscape, as you spot two small faces, and then a heavy trunk comes tumbling down the roof, collecting a few shingles, and lands squarely on Jason, knocking him to the ground. 

Beth all but vaults up the porch steps, colliding with Hershel, while Jason lies in a motionless heap in the mud, the chest atop his prone body. Andrea steps forward grimly, pistol raised; you tear your eyes away, just in time to see Maggie shooting one of the walkers feeding on the now dead man, while Daryl stabs the other- stabs Randall- through the skull with his bowie knife. Both crumple atop the fresh corpse; as it struggles underneath them, reanimated, Maggie shoots him too. 

For what seems like minutes but is really moments, there is no sound except faint crying and shouts, the downpour of the rain, and the rumble of thunder directly overhead. Then, as lightning crackles nearby, everyone seems to jolt back into motion. 

Maggie runs to her father and sister, crying like a little girl; Lori bursts out of the house, Carol on her heels, towards Rick, still slumped against the RV. Daryl follows after a moment; you know what he is going to tell them. Even from this distance, Rick doesn’t look good. He’s white as a sheet and not moving much at all anymore. God knows how much blood he lost on the hike back here. 

You follow Maggie, stumbling up the porch steps, though you’re completely unharmed. Andrea grabs your arm and you start to pull away, because you can’t hear what she’s saying over the ringing in your ears, but then you realize her firm grip is meant to comfort, not to reprimand, and there are tears in her blue eyes as well. 

You’ve never seen her cry before. She says something about Shane, but no one answers. 

Inside, you stand dumbly in the foyer, then enter the dining room. 

Glenn is on his feet and alert, to your relief, though his face is bruised and swollen and there’s blood speckled across his shirt. Shawn, however, is lying flat across the dining room table, and Patricia is cutting off his shirt with a pair of scissors. 

Hershel is already bent over him, shouting something at Maggie, who runs upstairs and returns moments later with a bag of medical supplies. Beth is sitting in a corner, her head in her hands, convulsing with sobs. 

But no one else seems hurt, to your relief, aside from the odd scrape or bruise. When you leave the dining room you see T-Dog coming down the stairs, his arms around Carl and Clementine. He looks shaken and the collar of his tee-shirt is ripped open, but that’s all. You break into a shaky, almost delirious smile at the sight of them, you’re so relieved Clementine is alright, and then her ensuing tackle hug knocks you off your feet; you land in a painful, wet heap on the hardwood floor. 

You barely feel the aches, though. She keeps talking, and hugging you, but you can’t hear her; you just squeeze her back, hard, and breathe in her familiar scent. 

For the first time, embracing her doesn’t feel in the least awkward or guilt-ridden; she just feels comfortable, like family. Like you felt when you would hug your dad.

T-Dog says something about you needed to dry off and change, and you find yourself pushed back upstairs. 

It feels like it’s been days since you stepped into Beth’s bedroom, though it’s only been a few hours. You just stand there, dripping onto the floor, for a long while, before going back into the hall to get a towel from the closet, slipping out of your squelching sneakers. 

Slowly, painfully, you peel all your clothes off; it feels like it takes ages. You put on your spare jeans and a shirt, not bothering with a bra, and scrape your wet hair back from your face into a sagging bun. It’s better than nothing. 

Then you just sit on the edge of Beth’s bed. The ringing in your ears is a little better; you’re no long deafened, but it’s still pretty bad. You’d have to focus hard to make out conversation. You certainly have no idea what’s going on downstairs, though if there was screaming and yelling you feel like you’d know. 

The temptation to simply ignore it all, to lie down and forget and sleep, sleep for weeks, is very strong. But you force yourself to stand up again, wiping at your runny nose. You’ll probably all have colds after this. 

You go downstairs, shivering a little; by now dusk has settled in outside, and the storm is still raging overhead, wind rattling the windows. 

Lanterns and candles are lit all over the place; the house is steeped with light. The dining room door is closed; they must still be taking care of Shawn. You walk slowly into the living room, feeling like a ghost, and find Maggie sitting on the sofa. You think you hear Clementine in the kitchen with Patricia; you smell something cooking, but you’re not hungry. 

“Where is everyone else?” you ask thickly. Maggie isn’t crying, though her face is still red and tearstained. She’s changed as well, into a pair of pyjamas, of all things, but she still has her boots on, and her gun is within reach on the coffee table. The sight would be absurd, humorous, if not for the circumstance. You don’t want to sit down beside her. You’re afraid of what she might say, do, worry that somehow she blames you for all of this, thinks you shouldn’t have gone with her, should have stopped her from heading out in the first place.

“In the barn,” she says. “Saying goodbye to Rick.”

The words settle like ice on your chest. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” She studies her hands. 

After a moment, she reaches for you, without glancing up, and tugs you to sit down beside her. You do, as you have in this room thousands of times before, your shoulder brushing. Lighting flickers through the darkened windows and the room is hushed and still, aside from the fire in the grate and the muffled sounds of conversation from the dining room and kitchen. 

You suddenly begin to cry; this feels selfish, and precious. Rick is dying. Or dead. He was a good man but you barely knew him and now he’s dead. 

For what? Those men are dead, Jason and the ones whose names you don’t even know. You can’t even conjure up their faces in your mind, because you only ever got glimpses of them. Do you want to know them? Does Maggie?

“I knew some of those guys,” Maggie murmurs, as if she’d been reading your mind. Maybe she can. You could believe just about anything right now. “I… Jason went to my high school. He was a senior when I was a freshman. He used to play baseball with Shawn. And he- he just shot him like it- like it was nothing.” She sounds stunned, still, as if it had just happened before her very eyes. “And… and that guy I shot on the porch, that was Tim. He dated one of my friends from high school’s sister once. The others were strangers, but them- they- and Randall-,”

She lapses into silence; not weeping, just silent and wounded. 

“They can’t hurt anyone anymore,” you say.

“I didn’t want to shoot anyone. I never shot a person- a living person before. A walker is different. It doesn’t… it doesn’t scream, or… or fight.”

“I’m sorry,” you tentatively wrap an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry I- I didn’t do more. I should have taken a gun. I was being stupid, I- I’m sorry I didn’t learn to shoot-,”

“I didn’t want to see you shoot them either,” she says. “Never you, you’re- no.” She swallows, hard; you watch the lump dissolve in her throat. 

Then she pecks you on the lips. You stiffen for an instant, then melt into it, like a great release, but it’s too late, she’s already pulled away. 

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, “Fuck, I’m- I don’t know why I did that-,”

You pull her close and kiss her again, fully, squarely on the mouth, and wait for her to shriek and push you away or call you disgusting, but she doesn’t, she kisses you back, kisses you until you feel electricity down your legs and prickle between your toes, and her mouth is so soft and warm, that when she pulls back you want to scream at her, you just want to kiss her forever.

“We can’t-,” she closes her eyes; you wish you wouldn’t. In this dim lighting the green is closer to the mossy, verdant black of a forest and they are beautiful. “People are dying, people are-,”

You’re so relieved that is her qualm, not anything else, that you break into an awful smile. 

“Sorry,” you say, not meaning it at all. 

She stares at you, then leans forward again and presses her flushed forehead to yours. 

There’s the sound of footsteps, and a door creaking. You quickly pull apart from one another as Beth’s face appears in the dining room doorway, the muted glow of the room illuminating the flyaway strands of her blonde hairs like a halo. 

Maggie tenses beside you, and you remember Shawn with a queasy sensation.

“He’s going to be okay,” she says, and you both exhale in relief. “But he’s pretty drugged up.” 

Beth cautiously steps into the room, as if she’s sensing she’s interrupting something. “Do you want to-,”

Maggie jumps to her feet and darts into the dining room. Beth and you exchange an awkward look. 

You start to stand up, but then Hershel appears; he pats Beth on the shoulder, muttering something to her, and she slips back inside, and shuts the door behind her, leaving the two of you alone in the living room.

You feel guilty, looking at Hershel, gaunt and pale, blood on his hands, his sons’ blood.

“We got some information out of them, while they were…. In here,” he gestures around the house almost weakly. “Patricia was smart; she kept them talking, Carol too.”

“Are there more?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says. “There’s always more. But they were… well, their group broke up, up at the daycare, and they were just one offshoot. Guess they all turned on each other, so those…. Those men,” his tone twists almost venomous, as if he doesn’t even want to call them that, “Split off, and ran into Jason by chance. He led them here; they figured it was their best option.”

“But there aren’t any more of them coming looking for… for the ones we killed.”

“I doubt it,” he says, tone hard. He seems to realize you’re cringing away, and softens his voice. “But you saved all our lives tonight, you and my Maggie and Daryl. And Rick, too.” He runs a hand through his white hair. “I’m going… to see if there’s anything else I can do for them.”

With that said, he leaves the room, and you are alone again in the dark. 

You ball your hands up into fists in your laps, release them, then pluck up a pillow and muffled a strangled scream or groan into it. When you feel a little calmer, you slowly get up, and make you way into the kitchen, where Patricia is stirring a pot of something while Clementine methodically chops vegetables for her. You’re no longer nervous seeing her use a knife so casually. 

“Can I help?” you ask in a low tone, and she moves over, so you hold the end of the carrot as she chops down the line, and Patricia continues to stir, humming softly under her breath. 

You don’t have to ask. People still need to eat, even during a storm. People always have to eat to survive. 

One by one, they drift back in. Andrea first, followed by T-Dog. A few minutes later, Carol and Glenn arrive, Carol letting Glenn lean on her, as his steps are slow and stilted. 

Then Daryl, carrying Carl on his back; Carl has buried his face in Daryl’s shoulder and doesn’t look up until Daryl lets him slide off and onto the floor, at which he stares, his hair hanging lank in front of his face. 

Finally, some ten minutes later, Hershel arrives, his arm around Lori, who is openly weeping against him. 

After everyone’s dried off, there is no pretense of trying to sit down for dinner together like one happy family; all of you split off into your own, quiet corners. 

You find a place in the kitchen in between Beth and Clementine; Maggie is checking on Shawn, but she comes back reporting he’s still feeling the effects of the sedatives, and in no condition to eat. 

Hershel takes his food out onto the back porch with Patricia, letting the door shut quietly behind them. 

Carl and Lori eat in a corner of the living room, though they barely touch their food. 

Daryl sits on the sofa, balancing his bowl in his lap, Carol and Glenn beside him. 

T-Dog takes one armchair, Andrea the other. And that is how you pass an hour; only the sounds of clinking spoons against bowls and the occasional slurp. The thunder and lightning have finally passed, and the rain lightens to a drizzle. 

You keep waiting to hear the whine or roar of an engine, a truck pulling up, but the only sound is the rain. It seems there is a collective, unspoken agreement to simply wait this night out, together. Everyone is exhausted and hurt. No one is in any shape to patrol the property for more intruders or stray walkers. 

When you’re done eating, you wash out your bowl, stick it on the drying rack, and shuffle upstairs with Maggie, Beth, and Clementine.

Clementine goes right into Maggie’s room, and Beth steps into the bathroom, leaving you and Maggie in the hall alone, for a moment. Neither of you says a word, but you squeeze her hand softly, and she kisses you again, then whispers goodnight. You don’t reply, but feel you don’t have to; your longing and relief that the day must show on your face.

You’re already lying down on the drooping air mattress when Beth comes back in the room, her face freshly scrubbed pink, but she frowns when she sees you, and says, in a low, almost embarrassed voice, “You can sleep in the bed with me.”

You stare up at her; she’s offered it before, hesitantly, when the two of you were little more than strangers, but you felt it was uncomfortable to sleep beside someone you barely knew, in their own bed, and refused. But now-

“I want you to,” Beth says, busying herself with turning down the covers. “You- I don’t want to sleep alone.”

You feel a softer pang in your chest. You have no idea what it’s like to have a younger sister, but you feel that Beth is one of the best options, if you had to have one. 

“Are you okay?” you ask as you stand up, and carefully clamber onto the other side of her bed. “After… after what happened? Jason didn’t hurt you?”

“Just some bruises,” she rubs at her arms, stares down at the mattress for a moment, then says, “I felt so weak, though, when he grabbed me, and I couldn’t get away. Like I was useless.”

“You’re not useless,” you say. “I’m the one who was supposed to be helping save you, and I was just standing there.”

“No, you distracted the ones on the porch,” she argues. “Maggie told me. She said it was the bravest thing she’d ever seen. And you helped Daryl and her get the rest of us free. We’d probably all be dead otherwise.” Her green eyes are bigger than her sister’s, but just as dark in this lighting. “Or worse.”

You don’t want to think about that. You incline your head, and lay down beside her. The last time you shared a bed with someone… you can’t even remember when. Some dorm sleepover after you got buzzed watching movies on a laptop. 

Your head swims as you stare up at the ceiling, but gradually your eyelids flicker and flutter, and sleep comes much sooner than you’d expected it to. 

When you wake up again, the room is bright with midday sunshine. You know instinctively that it’s not morning; it’s well past that. Beth is gone, and the door is open a crack; you hear footfall and muffled voices downstairs, and more outside. A pleasant, warm breeze is flowing through the windows, as if the storm yesterday was just a nightmare. You consider whether it was. Did you just dream all of that? Then you feel the aches and pains in your body. No. It was real.

You sit up with a muffled groan, looking around for a clock, and check the old one on Beth’s nightstand. It’s past twelve. You haven’t slept in this late since last summer. That seems like a world away right now. Slowly, you force yourself to get up. Your hearing still feels sort of tinny, and you have a bad taste in your mouth, but other than that, you feel alright, just stiff and weary down to the very bones. 

You plod out of the room and into the bathroom, washing your face and neck carefully, then trudge back in to change. Only then do you dare go downstairs. 

It could be any other peaceful day on the farm, except for the lingering crackling undercurrent of tension in the air. Clementine is reading in the dining room, Beth sitting beside her, writing in a notebook. Patricia is washing dishes in the kitchen; you eat some leftover toast and fruit, then join her without comment, almost eager for the mindless chore. 

“We’re gonna bury Rick in a bit,” she says. 

That still doesn’t feel real, either. 

You swallow. “What about… the other ones?”

“They’re gonna go in the marsh,” her tone sours. 

You just dip your head in agreement; you hope they keep it far, far from the house. 

“How’s Shawn?” He wasn’t still laid up in the dining room, so you assume he’s in bed, but-

“The bullet got lodged in his right arm. Hershel had to dig it out, or he might have lost it,” she says, shaking her head. “That boy- never hurt a day in his life, strong as an ox, and now this…” she chokes up, and you realize he really is like a nephew or son to her, not just her old employer’s kid. 

“But he’ll recover?”

“He’s not going to die,” Patricia says firmly, gathering herself, and wiping at her runny eyes with a reddened hand. “But it’s going to be hard for him, especially as we head into harvest season. He won’t be able to use the arm much at all for a while, and he lost a lot of blood. Hershel doesn’t want him moving around much at all for at least a fortnight.”

But he’ll live, you remind yourself, reassure yourself. He’ll live. This could have been much worse. You could have lost far more people. 

“I guess he… he can’t come to the funeral, then.”

“No,” she sighs. “He can’t. I’ll stay with him, make sure he doesn’t try anything stupid, like getting out of that bed. Doctor’s orders.”

“Patricia’s orders,” you say, with a small, weak smile, and that gets a brief chuckle out of her. 

Maggie comes in a few minutes later, followed by Hershel. 

“Well,” she announces, pulling off her work gloves. “Good news is, we just did a loop of the whole property with Daryl and T-Dog and Andrea, and we only found a couple walkers. No people.”

Just weeks ago, you think, this would have enraged her father, but now he is grim with acceptance. It’s shocking how easily things can change now, how opinions can turn. 

You wonder if the others regret their decision to release Randall. But he would have escaped anyways. And even if he hadn’t, Jason would still have led the others here. So in the end, did any of it even matter at all? 

Tears prick at your eyes, unexpectedly; Maggie sees your distraught look, and takes your hand. You tense and almost pull away, but Hershel and Patricia doesn’t seem fazed by it. You wonder if either of them expects, but that thought makes you uncomfortable, so you push it away. 

“Seems like we’re alright for now,” Hershel says. “But I still think we need to let the roads get more overgrown. If anyone has to leave this place, go hunting or for supplies… We need to cut down on the cars, unless it’s a real emergency, and take back routes in and out, so the paths leading here aren’t so well tread. Just in case people do wander by.”

Ironically enough; you agree with him. Right now the group is in no real shape to defend this land, and you can’t attract attention to yourselves; the highway is still relatively close by, within a few miles. At the same time, more people would make running the farm a much simpler prospect. 

It’s one of those nasty trade-offs, right? Too few people in the group, you might be overwhelmed and beaten down by the sheer work. Too many, and conflicts will inevitably arise. It’s not like you can just go out and post Help Wanted signs. 

Any further discussion is cut off by preparations for the funeral. It feels both more and less formal than Otis, which wasn’t even that long ago, you realize uneasily. No one dresses up or anything, and Rick’s body is already wrapped in sheets and lowered into the freshly dug grave when you get there. To your shock, there’s another one, and you realize who must be in that one. 

“Who went and…” you murmur to Maggie, trailing off; she’ll know what you mean.

“Daryl and Glenn, this morning,” she whispers. “They said… walkers were feeding, when they got there, so they had to…” she lets that trail off, too.

You glance over at Glenn; his bruises are still fresh, but he’s up on his feet; surprising yourself, you walk over to him, as the others begin to gather. Maggie follows, looking surprised by your initiative as well. 

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” he sounds stuffed up and miserable, like he’s got a cold.

“I- I’m really glad you’re alright,” you say. “Seriously.”

He gives a half-smile. “Yeah. Me too. Even if a lot of this is my fault to begin with.”

“Don’t you fucking start, Glenn,” Maggie says in warning, standing beside you, leaning against you slightly, even as she scowls at him, worry in her eyes. “You were ambushed. You still fought like hell.”

“Yeah,” he admits, after a moment, and a strange look passes between the three of you, from him to her, to her to you, to you to him, and back again. 

You don’t know what it means, but you think- well, you think he might have some idea. To your surprise, Glenn doesn’t seem annoyed or offended or even heartbroken, just… letting it settle. 

You don’t know how to feel. And you don’t really know how Maggie feels about it either. But for now, it’s okay. Probably. 

Lori and Carl are the last to arrive; Lori has her arms wrapped around her son, whose eyes are glassy and dull, but he at least seems a little more alert when Clementine comes over to stand beside them. After a moment, you do too, and the others follow, so you’re all more or less clumped around the Grimes, except for Hershel, as he reads aloud from the Bible. 

You don’t really remember any of what is said, except that when he closes the book, he looks to Lori, who swallows, then says, in a raw, aching voice. “I- I just wanted to say- and I… I think we can all agree, that Rick, to… to his very last breath, fought for us. Not- not just for me and Carl, his family, but for all of us. He cared about the group, and he… and he cared about doing the right thing. Even when it was the unpopular thing. Even when- even when it lost him friends.”

“Amen,” says Carol, squeezing her shoulder. 

You don’t think anyone is going to say anything for Shane- the popular consensus seems to be that he did probably attack Rick first, and… well, what happened to Otis, even if you’ll never prove it, but-

“Shane… Shane took care of my mom and me,” Carl says, haltingly. “And… and when we were… when we first all got um… together, at the quarry, he helped keep everyone safe, and he taught us how to work together. And… and he was my uncle. That’s what I wanted to say,” he scuffs at the ground with a sneaker. 

Lori kisses the top of his head. Andrea is openly crying, but says nothing. 

You all pass around shovels to fill in the graves; even Carl and Clementine help. It’s slow work; no one seems to have much energy right now, despite the bright sunshine, but it’s not so terrible. Beth hums a hymn, and after a few moments Carol and Lori join in. No one else does, but no one seems offended by the brief music, either. 

You can’t grieve for Rick as you did Otis; you hardly knew him, and didn’t interact with him the way you did Glenn, or even Dale or T-Dog. But you can still mourn his absence. And Shane… well, you never trusted him, but you can’t bring yourself to think of him as evil, or monstrous, either, even if he did or was going to do terrible things. Mostly, you pity him. 

When the graves are finally filled, two crude wooden crosses are shoved into the soil, the same as are above the graves of Sophia and Dale, under some trees nearby. In a decade, will they still be here? Will you remember exactly where you buried them? Will you even still be here, in a decade? 

“We need a meeting,” T-Dog says, as you all drink water and brush dirt off your clothes and mop sweat from your faces with your shirts. Everyone looks surprised he initiated this in the first place, and he seems a little surprised at himself, then says, more firmly, “We need to have a meeting. All of us. Together. To decide where the hell we go from here. No offense, Hershel.”

“None taken,” Hershel says, after a moment. 

You decide to meet on the front porch, with Clementine offering to run messages back and forth to Shawn to get his input, if need be.

You all sit or stand around, almost like kids on a field trip, uncertain, waiting for their leader, and then T-Dog says, “Look. When we first came here, we couldn’t decide who was really in charge. Rick or Shane. I don’t mean to bring that shit up again, but it’s the honest truth, and if we want any of this to work, we have to be honest with ourselves.”

There’s some uneasy shifting, but no one actually disputes that. 

“That'd be a first, for this group,” Daryl mutters. 

“So what are you saying?” Maggie asks. “We have an election?”

“God, please not again with the voting,” Glenn groans. 

“No,” says T-Dog, after a moment. “I don’t think it has to be all… political. But we have to decide who is in charge of what. We- look, we all have different skills, we’re all good at different things, and maybe we wouldn’t be at each other’s throats so much if we could all just… figure that out beforehand.”

“Did you used to work in management?” Andrea asks him bluntly.

“HR,” he replies, unsmiling. 

Her eyes widen; she looks away. 

“I’m really good at exploring,” Clementine says. “And Carl and I are good at dropping stuff on people. And hiding,” she nudges him with her elbow; he doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t push her away, either. 

“I was handling the hunting to begin with,” Daryl says. “But I could- guess I could teach some of you how to make traps and such. For walkers and for rabbits and squirrels and shit.”

“Otis taught me and Shawn a little about that once,” Maggie nods. “He used to do it with his dad.”

“Yeah,” Daryl snorts, but smiles slightly. “One redneck to another.”

“Patricia’s been in charge of the house anyways,” you say. “But we can all help with the laundry, and take turns washing dishes and keeping things clean.” 

“And not just the women,” Andrea adds, sharply. 

The men don’t look thrilled, but no one argues, either. 

“This farm’s been in my family for generations,” Hershel allows. “But… I won’t be around forever. And I’d like it if my kids had some help they could rely on, with it.”

“We’re all going to have to pitch in to get the harvest in and make sure nothing is wasted, anyways,” Maggie says firmly. “Dad and I can give everyone an official tour of all the equipment and what’s planted where later. So we’re all on the same page.”

“I can keep teaching the kids,” Beth says softly. “If that’s okay, and looking after the animals with Sandra-,”

“I can do whatever you need me to do,” you say. “Except shooting stuff.” 

There’s a few quiet laughs. 

“The maps,” Glenn says suddenly. “They’re outdated and… and we need to know what’s going on in the area around up. To the north, the south, the west… we should at least be aware of some kind of radius, right? We can’t stop anyone from coming through, but we can know where they’re coming from, and if they seem dangerous or not. I can update the maps.”

“Everyone is dangerous,” Carol says, her voice low.

“But not everyone wants to hurt us,” Beth replies. “You didn’t.”

There’s another brief silence, until finally Lori says, “As far as I can tell, the baby’s due sometime in January.” 

She reddens with all eyes on her, then adds, defensively, “Just thought, if we’re all being clear with each other… Look, I don’t want to be a burden, I can still work just as well as anyone right up until then-,”

“We’ll get there together,” Hershel cuts her off. “And your baby will be born here, Lori. And we’ll do as much as we can for them. For you.”

Lori looks like she might burst into tears again, but just nods shakily. Carol wraps an arm around her, while Carl looks very uncomfortable. 

“As for anyone who does want to hurt us,” Daryl says. “We need a system. A plan. Drills. Whatever you want to call them. Can’t expect everyone to pick up a gun and start shooting- more like to shoot each other, at that rate. But we should all damn well know how to defend ourselves. Where to run, where to hide, and what to do if someone goes missing again. Or if we think there’s an intruder.”

As if on cue, Carter comes racing up the porch steps, drawn by human voices and eager to play. He barks a little, tail wagging; everyone seems to ease up a little, and there’s the faint sound of Shawn’s voice from above; he must have heard him. 

“Come on, Carter,” Clementine says, opening the screen door. “Come on, boy!” The terrier follows her into the house. After a glance at his mother, Carl does so as well, and you hear them rushing upstairs, Carter yipping.

“I don’t like that mutt in the house,” Hershel mutters, with no real anger; Maggie snorts, and Andrea smiles unexpectedly. 

You feel a little lighter, though, and not just because of the dog. 

For the first time, there’s no whispering behind one another’s backs, no secret arguments, no dirty looks being thrown. 

It’s not like you’re all suddenly the best of friends, but at least everyone seems to be willing, for now, to put their old grudges aside for the sake of your futures. You think of Lee, suddenly, and wonder if you can leave some sort of sign, or message for him somewhere, one only he’d know. Maybe Clementine can help you think of something. 

But for now, people are standing up, stretching, rolling back their shoulders and yawning- there’s work to be done, and plenty of daylight left to do it in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I both like and dislike this chapter, but ultimately, I was just glad to be through with it. I'm not crazy about writing fight scenes so I tried to keep that to a minimum.


End file.
